


Overheard

by chambergambit



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Class Differences, Excessive eavesdropping, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Vague attempts at historical accuracy, almost everyone has PTSD, discussion of past suicide attempts, thomas barrow's attempts to be a good person and butler
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2018-12-20 06:27:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 58,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11915106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chambergambit/pseuds/chambergambit
Summary: As butler of Downton Abbey, Thomas Barrow sees and hears all. You'd think people would have that figured out by now. When Mr. Talbot hires an old friend from the war to work at his car shop, Thomas isn't sure he likes what he sees, or hears, or... feels.Actual Summary!An utterly self-indulgent after-the-end fixit-fic in which:1. Thomas Barrow finds true love with someone who is just as heartbroken and scarred as he is.2. The lukewarm reaction to his suicide attempt is addressed3. People appreciate Barrow’s genuine attempts to be a better person.4. Carson really takes him under his wing in training him to become butler.5. Henry Talbot has a more interesting backstory than just “car racing” bc imo that was pretty boring.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Like many others, I fucking hated the way Downton Abbey ended (late to the party, I know). As a result of this hatred, anger, and disappointment, I was consumed with the need to write a story that gives Thomas what he deserves: not just a happy ending, but a happy life going forward. And while a person doesn't need a romantic partner to be happy, it would be pretty fucking great for Thomas to have one. I didn't want it to be Jimmy or that pos Duke, because I didn't want it to be someone who had broken his heart before, and I just wasn't feeling Brarrow/Branson.
> 
> To my surprise, an OC from an original work of mine volunteered. "A beautiful bastard who's bitter with the world but at the same time just wants to be happy? SIGN ME THE FUCK UP."
> 
> This is the result. This chapter is like 6k-ish. So far the next is almost 5k, but it isn't nearly finished. I think this gonna be a long one, guys. Please stick with me.
> 
> Comments are very much appreciated, especially feedback with regards to characterization. Also, let me know what you'd like to see happen. This is very much a work in progress, and I'm 100% open to ideas.

One week into Thomas Barrow’s job as butler-in-name-only, a postcard arrives from Berlin. Thomas discovers it while passing out mail to the other servants at lunch. Big block letters spelling out the city name over an illustration of the Brandenburg Gate stare up at him from one hand while he gives the final piece of mail to Baxter with the other. He blinks at it twice before turning it over.

_TALBOT—_

_Heard you got married and sell cars now. Mazel tov, you’re officially a WASP! Need any help?_

Instead of a signature, the writer signed the card with a five-pointed star. Thomas purses his lips wonders if “wasp” is supposed to mean what he thinks it means.

“What’s that?” asks Anna, looking up from John Jr cradled in her arms.

“Postcard for Mr. Talbot,” he says. “Must’ve gotten mixed up with our stuff.”

Carson grumbles from the head of the table. “Don’t waste any time then. He should be in the drawing room with Lady Mary and Mr. Branson.”

Thomas wants to tell him that Talbot can wait until after the servants lunch. After all, they have to wait until the family has finished to eat themselves. Still, he holds his tongue. If he wants to keep this position when Carson finally keels over, he will have to stay in the old man’s good graces.

As he climbs up the stairs, he reads over the postcard again. Lady Mary and Mr. Talbot have been married nearly half a year. What sort of friend of Talbot’s didn’t know about it until now? Although Thomas supposes the _mazel tov_ reveals why this person wasn’t invited. He considers it for a moment and thinks maybe not, after everything with Lady Rose.

He shakes his head and holds the postcard at his side when he reaches the top of the stairs. There is no need to wonder about this. It isn’t any of his business. A year or so ago he would’ve filed _Talbot has a Jewish friend in Germany_ away in his head for future use, but not anymore. He is better than that now, and he isn’t going to fall back in old habits.

Talbot is indeed in the drawing room with Mary and Branson, drinking tea and discussing the second-hand car shop he and Branson had started. Thomas stands up incrementally straighter as he approaches them.

“We have to stop buying more than we sell. We can’t fix them up in time to make a profit.” Branson says between sips of his tea.

“Perhaps you could hire another mechanic.” Lady Mary suggests.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” says Talbot.

Thomas stops at Talbot’s side and holds out the card. “Postcard for you, sir. I’m afraid it was put with the servants’ mail by accident.”

“Thank you, Barrow,” says Talbot, taking the card. He takes a quick glance at the illustration on the back, then grins when he turns it over. “Oh, this is _perfect_.”

“You’re very welcome, sir.” Thomas says with a nod. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

“No, no, Barrow, we’re alright,” says Branson. He waves his hand dismissively, causing Thomas to clench his jaw.

Mary leans forward and pats her husband’s arm. “Who’s that from?”

Thomas suppresses the urge to eavesdrop and turns around to exit the room. Regardless of the suppression, as he heads for the doorway, he hears Talbot explain.

“Seth Starling, old friend of mine from the war.”

“The one who saved your life?” asks Mary.

“The very one! Lost a leg in the process. Plus, he’s an excellent mechanic, can fix just about anything.”

Just as their voices fade away, Thomas thinks _What’s he doing in Berlin, though?_ He shakes his head to clear the thought away. He doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t care about what some one-legged Jew that he’s never met does in Berlin.

Thomas manages not to think about said one-legged Jewish Berliner until dinner service, when the subject comes up again as he pours another glass of wine for Lord Grantham.

“You don’t _really_ want to hire him, do you?” asks Branson, staring down at his plate and picking at his food.

Talbot sighs. “You’ll hardly ever see him, I promise. We’ll turn the storage rooms upstairs into a flat, and, _if you want_ , he can stay in there whenever you come to the shop.”

Lord Grantham’s wineglass full, Thomas steps back to refill Lady Grantham’s. She gives him a quick, warm smile before turning to Branson.

“I’m surprised you’re so hesitant, Tom,” she says. “I’ve never known you to turn away a friend in need.”

Branson puts down his fork and starts to wring his napkin in his hands.

“I know, but—“

“I’m afraid Mr. Starling is a little eccentric for Tom’s tastes.” Mary says with a sly smile.

“Well, if he really saved your life, and he really needs a job, and he _really_ is a good mechanic,” says Branson, “I suppose we can’t tell him no.”

“ _And_ it’s his birthday,” says Mary.

Branson rolls his eyes. “ _And_ his birthday.”

“He’s more than good.” Talbot elbows Branson in the shoulder. “He’s a genius. You’ll see.”

Thomas sets the wine bottle on the table and steps back to stand against the wall next to Andy.

“How exactly did this man save your life?” asks Lord Grantham.

“Pushed me out of the way of a grenade.” Talbot says. “Got all kinds of shrapnel in his shin, some down to the bone!”

Lord Grantham frowns. “I would prefer you omit the gorier details.”

“As would I,” says Lady Cora.

Talbot nods. “Of course, I’m sorry. But it wasn’t just that. He was my best mate over there, and without him, I’d have gone completely mad.”

“Well, if you absolutely insist, we can hire him,” says Branson. He stabs his chicken hard with a fork, as if the emphasize the finality of his decision. “But if he _tries_ anything, he’s out.”

“I assure you, Tom, he is not going _try_ anything.” Talbot leans in closer to Branson with a cheeky grin on his face. “ _You’re not his type_.”

Branson turns red, Mary cackles, and a hot stone of understanding drops into Thomas’s stomach.

“What was that?” asks Lord Grantham.

Talbot sits up and flashes him a charming smile. “Nothing to worry about, sir!”

The Lord grumbles, but takes a long sip of his wine instead of enquiring further. Mary asks her mother about her work at the hospital, and there is no more discussion of Talbot’s life-saving, car-fixing, one-legged, Jewish, _queer_ friend for the rest of the meal.

Later, when Thomas is downstairs in the office he now shares with Carson, going over the schedule for the next two weeks, Mrs. Hughes, of all people, is the one to bring him up. She usually joins them in the office for “butler lessons” that 1, Thomas does not need, and 2, should have been given to him when he was under-butler.

“I hope we get to meet Mr. Talbot’s friend,” she says without looking up from her sewing. “He sounds very _interesting_.”

Her eyes jump right to Thomas’s, and she holds his gaze for a full five seconds before turning back to her work. Embarrassment and anger burns the back of his neck and drips down his spine. How _dare_ she insinuate something like that?

“If he’ll be living at the shop in York as well as working there, I doubt we’ll see much of him,” says Thomas, holding up the schedule to hide his expression. “Besides, there are enough _interesting_ people at Downton already.”

Carson nods. “Right you are, Mr. Barrow.”

Thomas nearly drops the paper and stares at him. “ _You_ think _I’m_ right?”

“It is a rare occasion,” says Carson, “but it does happen.”

 

They do not see him. After he arrives in York and starts working at the shop, Thomas hears bits and pieces about him (showed up a day early, swears like a sailor, smokes like a chimney, listens to what he calls “experimental jazz” records while he works), but he does not come to Downton.

And then, on the morning of February first, the refrigerator breaks. Thomas doesn’t understand what all the fuss is about. It’s just as cold outside as it would be in that box, but both Mrs. Patmore and Daisy are in a panic.

“I don’t know how I got so dependent on that machine!” says Mrs. Patmore. She hovers over Branson, who has the thing face-down on the table as he fiddles with it. “We used to get along just fine!”

“Oh, everything’s gonna spoil,” says Daisy as she organizes the refrigerator’s contents into a pile next to it.

Thomas leans against the wall with a cigarette in his mouth, watching the scene unfold. It’s one of Carson’s days off, and he’ll be furious if he learns that Thomas ignored any sort of crisis in his absence, even if there was nothing he could do about it. As such, he stays in the kitchen and forces himself to hold back on any snide remarks.

Branson puts down his screwdriver and sighs. “Is Carson here? I need to use the telephone.”

“Mr. Branson, if you feel that you need permission to enter _our_ office, you can always ask for _mine_.” So much for holding back, but it needed to be said.

“Fine,” says Branson. He looks over his shoulder at Thomas. “May I use the telephone in _your_ office, Mr. Barrow?”

Thomas plucks the cigarette from his mouth, blows out a cloud of smoke, and smiles. “Yes, Mr. Branson, you may.”

Branson gets up and brushes past Thomas on his way to the office, muttering “My deepest thanks” under his breath. He rubs his eyes and sighs when he returns and plops down in a chair.

“Who did you call?” asks Daisy. “A repairman?”

“I called Starling,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Thomas frowns, but remains silent.

“I thought he fixed cars,” says Patmore. “What’s fixing cars have to do with fixing refrigerators?”

“And yet you asked a former chauffeur for help.” Thomas says. Guilt tingles in his throat. _He’s supposed to be holding back_. He swallows it and tells himself that Patmore walked right into it.

“He fixed his own one last week,” says Branson. “Bought one that was just about fallin’ apart for a couple pennies, then fixed it up good as new.”

Thomas drops his cigarette and puts it out under his foot. “Well then, if the crisis is averted, I can get back to work.”

“You didn’t even do anything!” Daisy calls out after him as he heads upstairs.

Thomas hears him before he sees him. He’s upstairs, winding one of the bedroom clocks, when a sound like a gunshot pierces the air, followed by a roar. Closing the clock and putting it back on the nightstand, he turns to face the window.

A motorbike zooms out of the woods and across the yard, popping and roaring all the way. The rider stops in front the garage, and Thomas steps closer to the window to get a better look. He’s a dark, slim figure in a brown leather jacket with black trousers and boots. Removing his helmet and goggles reveals a pale, young face. He shakes out his hair, then swings one leg over the bike and strides toward the main building.

Watching the man walk with ease, Thomas decides this isn’t Mr. Starling.

He is wrong.

By the time Thomas finishes his rounds and makes it back downstairs, the refrigerator is already fixed, and Starling sits at the table in the Servants Hall, eating a sandwich made by Mrs. Patmore.

Or, sitting is one word for it. _Lounging_ is another one.  Slouching halfway out of one chair with his skinny legs draped across another and his boots resting on a third, he looks like a great big cat who’s happy to stretch out and relax on just about anything. His dark, uncombed hair flops over his eyes, concealing them.

Thomas stands in the stairway door, staring at where the fabric of the man’s trousers rides up his left leg to reveal not socks, not flesh, but wood. Starling swallows a bite of his sandwich, and a slow, Cheshire Cat grin appears on his face.

“Mrs. Patmore, I do believe you are the _finest_ cook in Great Britain.”

He’s _American_.

Somehow, that’s the last straw. Thomas hurries past him without another look as Patmore giggles and tries to reject the flattery from the kitchen. He bursts out the door and steps into the cool February air.

As he reaches for his cigarettes, heat erupts across the back of his neck, and he knows, he _knows_ that Starling is watching him. With his heart pounding in his ears, he turns left and keeps walking until the heat is gone.

While he isn’t there to witness it, from what Thomas can gather, Starling volunteers his services to anything else that might need fixing, and spends all day doing just that. Thus, Thomas spends all day avoiding him as much as possible.

Just before he’s finally set to leave, Starling has tea with Mary, Talbot, and Branson. Of course, Thomas must serve it to them.

“I can’t _believe_ you didn’t invite me to the wedding!” Starling smacks Talbot on the back of the head as Thomas enters the room, tea tray in hand. “You didn’t even _tell_ me!”

Talbot shoves him back. “How was I supposed to? I had no idea where you were! Didn’t even know you were in Berlin till I got your card.”

“Now, now, boys,” says Mary. “There’s no need to fight.”

Thomas sets the tray down and starts pouring tea in order of familiarity: Mary first, then Branson, then Talbot. He prays that Starling will refuse.

“What were you doing in Berlin, anyway?” asks Branson.

Starling does not answer. Instead, he sinks into a deeper slouch and watches Thomas from behind his curtain of hair.

Talbot laughs. “The real question is, what _weren’t_ you doing in Berlin?”

Starling slouches in silence. Heat scorches across every inch of Thomas’s skin.

“Well?” asks Mary.

“Was it the same thing you were doing in Vienna?” Talbot pokes Starling’s arm. “Or Amsterdam? Or _Minsk_?”

At the mention of Minsk, Starling takes his eyes (wide, grey, almost unblinking) off Thomas so he can sit up and hit Talbot again. “ _Shut your fucking mouth, Talbot_.”

Branson holds up a hand. “Language!”

Starling falls back into his chair and huffs. “Fuck off, Branson, this isn’t the shop. I won’t swear at the shop, but I’ll swear as much as I like everywhere else.”

“Which it seems,” says Mary, “is constantly.”

Starling grins. “ _Abso-fucking-lutely_.”

The time arrives for Thomas to start on the guest’s cup. Since there has been no indication that Starling would prefer something else, he pulls the cup toward him and pours. Something shifts in the corner of his eye.

“Three sugars, please.” Starling’s breath is warm on his cheek. Thomas must hold his own breath as he fulfills that ridiculous request.

“ _Three_ sugars?” asks Branson. “You take your coffee black, but your tea with _three_ sugars?”

“They are different drinks that serve different purposes.” Starling says, his gaze locked on Barrow.

Thomas can see him out of the corner of his eye. The leather jacket is gone, but the sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to his elbows, and his blue tie is so loose it might as well be undone. He reaches out for his tea, and Thomas catches a glimpse of a white, circular scar on his wrist about an inch in diameter.

“Thank you,” says Starling.

Thomas meets his eyes for one heated moment, then he blinks, nods, and turns to walk away.

“You’re not supposed to thank them.” Mary says.

“Thank who?” Starling asks.

“The servants,” says Talbot.

“ _What_?”

Thomas stops at the sound of glass clinking together and looks over his shoulder. Nothing _on_ the table itself seems to be out of order, but for those _at_ the table, it’s a different story. Starling is up on his feet, a look of utter scorn and indignation on his face. Talbot grabs his arm to try and pull him back down, but Starling shoves him off. Mary covers her mouth with her hands to hide her giggles.

“Not _thank_ them?” Starling says, his voice about to break in his anger. “They’re _servants_ , that means they _serve_ you, they _take care of you_ , and you don’t _thank them_?”

Branson sighs. “I know it sounds odd, but it’s not as if they’re ungrateful.

Starling turns to look at Thomas, still standing there halfway between the table and the hallway.

“They don’t thank you?” He asks.

Thomas breathes deeply and holds his trembling hands behind his back. He keeps his eyes on the wall, not on the strange man demanding his attention.

“They do not thank me for performing my basic, day-to-day duties. Working at Downton Abbey is as much a privilege as living here. The Crawley family’s loyalty to their servants is unparalleled.” Starling drops back into his chair with a thud. Thomas puts on his best it’s-a-pleasure-to-serve smile, and looks back at the table. “Is there anything else I can bring you? More biscuits, perhaps?”

Mary beams at him. “No Mr. Barrow, we’re perfectly fine here.” She reaches out her hand to him, but he’s too far away to take it. “But truly, we are thankful for everything you’ve done for us. How long have you been here? Ten years?”

“Fifteen, ma’am, and it is my pleasure.” He closes his eyes and gives her a deep nod of the head. “If you do find you would like anything else, you know how to call me.”

A rare sense of pride in his years of service glows in his chest, only to shatter once he turns the corner and overhears this exchange:

“So that’s Barrow, huh?” says Starling.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” says Branson. “Anyone but _him_.”

Thomas runs before he can hear the rest of it.

Barrow hides in his shared office even after he hears the pop-and-roar of that awful motorbike riding away. He doesn’t think about stormy grey eyes, or pale hands calloused from years of work, or the circular scar just above the crook of his elbow. There is no flutter in his chest at the man’s anger over not thanking the help.

Thomas meant what he said. No family cares as much for their servants as the Crawleys. They paid for Mrs. Patmore’s eye surgery, stuck with Bates through all his legal troubles, and continue to keep Carson on even though he’s no longer able to fulfill his duties. Anna had her _baby_ in Lady Mary’s _own bed,_ for Christ’s sake. There’s very little Lord and Lady Grantham would deny their servants.

Thomas Barrow, what he is, what he wants, is one of the few exceptions. What happened with Jimmy so many years ago was a mistake in more ways than one. He shouldn’t have listened to O’Brien, but he played right into her nasty hands because he wanted it to be true. He wanted the handsome, cheeky, talented young man to want him back.

Then, like the complete idiot he is, he _acted_ on it, and nearly got himself sacked. He _should_ have been sacked. He was only able to stick around because of his cricket skills (that and Bates helped, but it was mostly cricket).

After that, Carson was happy to get rid of him the first chance he got. It didn’t matter that he’d been in this house since he was 15, or that he saved Lady Edith’s life, or that the thought of leaving made him… made him…

Never mind, that’s all over now. He has a clear goal in mind: Butler of Downton Abbey, and all the prestige and responsibility that comes with it. There is no room for a romance like Carson and Hughes or Anna and Bates or even Daisy and Andy. Even if he does find someone the way they all found each other, it’s simply not an option.

A homosexual footman is one thing. A homosexual butler is entirely another.

He performs the rest of his duties like an automaton, not thinking or feeling as he gives orders to the maids, or helps Andy set the dinner table. It’s only when the family are eating their dinner and the subject of Mr. Starling comes up _again_ does Thomas wake up.

He stands at the wall next to Andy, waiting for any signal to refill a glass or take away a plate. The conversation is clouded and distant until--

“Just how many repairs did this chap do, exactly?” asks Lord Grantham and he slices into his steak.

“He fixed the refrigerator, looked at the oven, did something to the radio -- I don’t know what specifically, but the sound is much clearer, now -- and he replaced some lightbulbs.” Branson says, counting on his fingers.

Thomas clenches his fists at his sides.

“Replaced some lightbulbs?” asks Mary. “Don’t we have people to do that already?

_Exactly_ , Thomas thinks.

Branson shrugs. “It seems even after all the years we’ve had electricity; some people are a still bit wary. Apparently, there’ve been lights out in a few rooms for weeks.”

“Weeks?” Lord Grantham huffs, then turns to look over his shoulder at Thomas. “Barrow, I want you to make sure from now on that each light in each room is in working order.”

“Of course, sir.” Thomas says.

“Good,” says Lord Grantham. He furrows his brow at the electric lights hanging above the table. “You’re not afraid of a few lightbulbs, are you?”

“No, milord, not at all.”

Lord Grantham turns back again to take a good look at Andy. “What about you, boy? Are you afraid?”

Andy blinks, his neutral footman expression wavering towards uncertainty. “Well, I wouldn’t say lightbulbs specifically--”

Thomas pinches him, and Andy at least has the self-control not to yelp.

“No,” says Thomas. “Andy isn’t afraid of lightbulbs either, sir.”

Lord Grantham nods and turns back to his meal. Thomas wonders if the great Earl of Grantham has ever bothered to change a lightbulb himself, but pushes the thought away.

“And how much did we pay Mr. Starling for his services?” Lord Grantham asks.

Branson and Talbot share a look.

“I, um, I tried to pay him, but he refused.” Branson says, looking down at his plate.

“He refused?” asks Lady Grantham. “How could he refuse?”

Talbot sighs. “He’s a bit mad when it comes to money. He won’t accept any overtime or compensation for extra work. He says he’s more than happy with the wages he already receives.”

“Not to mention the flat.” Mary says. She holds up her empty wine glass, and Thomas steps forward to take the bottle from the center of table, then glides around it to refill her cup.

Talbot frowns at her. “Remember, Darling, Dr. Clarkson said to cut back.”

“I know, I know,” says Mary, holding up a finger and signaling Thomas to stop at halfway full. “This is my final glass of the night.”

Lady Grantham chuckles and holds up her own glass. “Well, it certainly isn’t mine.”

Thomas turns away from Mary and begins refilling her mother’s glass instead. For a moment, he tries to remember how much Lady Mary drank while she was pregnant with Master George. It must have been the perfect amount, because that little boy is wonderful.

God, how he adores those children, and unlike everyone else, they love him back. P _robably because they don’t know any better,_ he thinks as he finishes refilling the wineglass and sets the bottle back on the table.

Once the family’s dinner is finished and the table clear, Thomas heads downstairs with a tray full of silver and china, Andy close behind with a tray of his own.

“You didn’t have to pinch me.” Andy says as they each make careful steps down the narrow servants’ staircase. “I’m not afraid of lightbulbs, just live wires and the like.”

“We can’t have his Lordship thinking that we are less than 100% capable of our jobs.” Thomas says. “They need to trust us implicitly, or else we’re all out on our ears.”

The fact that such a statement contradicts his earlier declaration of the family’s unparalleled loyalty leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Somehow, he knows both are true.

They reach the kitchen, and place their trays on a table next to the sink to be washed.

“Where are the light bulbs, anyway?” Andy asks, scratching his head in thought.

“They’re--” Thomas frowns. He can’t remember the last time he handled one of them. “In the pantry, aren’t they?”

Mrs. Hughes appears behind them. “Carson keeps them in his office,” she explains, putting a hand on Thomas’ shoulder. “Says they’re too fragile and important for the pantry. Perhaps that’s something you can discuss tomorrow when he comes back.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hughes,” says Thomas, “I think I’ll do just that.”

“Good,” she says with a warm smile. “Now, I think it’s time for me to be getting back to my husband. Goodnight, everyone!”

Thomas, Andy, Patmore, and Daisy all wish her goodnight before they all get started on setting the servants’ table. It’s strange watching her leave every night before dinner, as it’s strange to watch Daisy leave afterwards. Anna and Bates also have their own little cottage to go home to, but since John Jr sleeps in the nursery upstairs, they’ve elected to stay at Downton for the time being.

Servants dinner is Thomas’s favorite part of Carson’s days off. He sits at the head of the table like a true butler, his devoted staff on either side of him. They aren’t devoted to _him_ , of course, but to the Crawley family and to Downton Abbey. Still, seeing Baxter, Andy, and Daisy one side of the table and Patmore, Anna, and Bates on the other begets the warmest feeling of satisfaction.

A knock on the stairway door forces them all to turn. Lady Mary, in full nightgown and robe, stands before them, wringing her hands. The staff stands in unison, something Thomas has always felt awkward and unnecessary.

“Oh, I’m so, so sorry,” says Lady Mary, glancing up and down the table. “I was hoping you had finished.”

“Do you need my help with something, Ma’am?” asks Anna, leaning forward a bit.

Mary lets out an exasperated laugh. “No, actually, I was looking for Barrow.”

Thomas blinks. “Me, milady?”

“Yes, yes,” she steps further into the room and places a hand on his shoulder. “George and Sybbie want a story before bed, and I’m afraid they’re rather insistent that you read it to them. However, since you’re still eating--”

“No, milady, I would love to read to them.” Thomas says. Part of him wants to chastise himself for interrupting, but he can’t bring himself to do it. “I’m sure Mrs. Patmore can save me a few left overs.

He turns to Patmore who smiles and nods.

“Oh, _thank you_ , Barrow.”  Lady Mary says, taking his arm as he steps away from the table. “This is such a relief. Nanny was afraid they wouldn’t go to sleep at all!”

Thomas smiles, that warm feeling he got from sitting at the head of the table glowing even brighter. “I am always happy to save the day, milady,” he says. “Or in this case, night.”

Mary laughs and pats his arm as they make their way up the stairs. It’s a bit of a walk from the kitchen all the way to the nursery, so Thomas keeps a close eye on Mary through every hallway and stairwell. She’s only just begun to show, and he doesn’t know what he’d do if a woman in her condition fainted on him.

“I must tell you, Barrow.” Mary says, pulling him a hair closer as the door to the nursery comes into view. “My relationship with Carson was very important to me, growing up, and I believe a similar relationship is blossoming between you and George.”

A blush erupts across his cheeks, and Thomas dips his chin to hide it.  They stop at the door and Mary turns to face him directly. “And I’m glad it’s you.”

“ _Me_?” Thomas says, his voice just above a whisper.

Mary nods. “Yes, you. You and not some stranger who doesn’t understand the house or the family, or, well, _me_.”

“M-milady…” Thomas breathes. His nose stings and his eyes threaten to well up.

“And we didn’t hire you back just because you _happened_ to be at Edith’s wedding.” Mary tapped him on the center of his chest. “There’ve been a few bumps in the road, no one can deny that, but you were always meant to be Carson’s successor. Even if you hadn’t been there, you would’ve been the first person we called.”

“Either way, milady,” says Thomas as he wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. “I’m glad I attended.”

Mary beams at him. “So am I.”

He opens the nursery door with a light bow to let her step in before him, and grins at the sounds of Master George and Miss Sybbie tumbling towards her.

“Did you get him, Mummy?” asks George, tugging on his mother’s robe.

Sybbie is just as insistent, grasping her Aunt’s hand tight and bouncing on her little feet. “Did you find Mr. Barrow?”

Thomas steps into the light and closes the door behind him. “Due to popular demand, yes, Mr. Barrow is here to read you a bedtime story.”

The children cheer, drop Mary, and rush to Thomas’s side. He kneels to let them embrace his neck before he scoops them up, each in one arm.

“Oh, thank goodness,” says Nanny, who sits in a plush chair by the crib, her head resting in her hands.

George and Sybbie’s beds stand side-by-side under a west-facing window. He puts them down one at a time and plops onto the soft carpet with his legs crossed. “Now, what would you like me to read?”

“The Velvet Rabbit!” says George as Mary tucks him in.

On the other side of Thomas, Nanny tries to tuck Sybbie in as well, but she sits up and kicks the blankets off. “It’s _The Velveteen Rabbit_ , stupid!”

“Sybbie!” Thomas says, holding up a finger. “I will not tolerate any name-calling. Any more name-calling, and I will leave you with no story at all.”

“Sorry, Mr. Barrow.” Sybbie pouts but allows Nanny tuck her in without any further outbursts.

Mary hands him the book, worn out after many readings. “Now, we must do our best not to wake up Baby John.”

“Please, _please_ , don’t wake up Baby John.” Nanny says, slipping to her knees in exhaustion.

“Hush now, everyone.” Thomas says, his voice low but not quite a whisper. He opens the book, and begins to read. “ _There once was a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning, he was really splendid_.”

By the time the velveteen rabbit became a real animal, living amongst the rabbits in the forest, George, Sybbie, and even Nanny are fast asleep. Thomas climbs to his feet, careful not to scuff his shoes, and hands the book to Mary so she can place it on the shelf with all the other books.

He takes a moment to examine Nanny, gone to the world in the plush pink chair next to John Jr. The rumpled, middle-aged woman has worked here for about six years, hired just after Nanny West was sacked, but somehow, Thomas doesn’t know her name. He’s never heard her called by anything but Nanny. While he’s not quite sure if he should feel guilty about this, he does take a blanket from another chair and drapes it over her best he can.

Mary switches off the light on the nightstand between Sybbie and George, then comes over to check on John Jr. She lays one hand on the edge of the cradle and peers inside.

“He looks just like Bates, doesn’t he?”

_Unfortunately_ , Thomas thinks, but he swallows the remark down before he can make it. “Yes, yes, he does. Master George is the spitting image of his father as well.”

“Isn’t he just?” Mary says, turning back to the children in their beds. “It’s hard to look at him sometimes. Sybbie, too.”

“Yes,” Thomas sighs. “Sometimes she smiles and I, well, just for a moment, I forget her mother is gone.”

A hand rests on his shoulder, and Thomas looks up to see Mary’s eyes glistening with tears in the dark.

“Oh, milady, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“It’s alright.” Mary squeezes his shoulder and smiles. “It’s good to talk about them. I don’t think we do it nearly often enough.”

Thomas nods. “It’s just, it’s just difficult.”

“I know,” she says. She places a hand over her growing stomach. “Hopefully _she_ with look like _me_.”

“She?” asks Thomas. “But how do you know?”

Mary lets out a quiet laugh. “Well, she feels different from how George did, and I’ve discussed it with Mama and Edith--” She narrows her eyes at him. “Wait, do you know about Edith?”

“Do I know about Lady Edith and Marigold, her beloved ward who is certainly nothing more than that? No, I know nothing at all.”

Laughing again, Mary turns away from the cradle and heads for the door. Thomas catches up in time to open it for her.

“Would you like me to walk you do your room, milady?” Thomas asks. “It’s quite a distance.”

“I appreciate the offer, Barrow, but no,” says Mary. “I may be in the family way, but I can still make it to my own room without much trouble.”

Thomas nods. “If you insist, ma’am.”

She takes one last look at him before disappearing down the hall. “Goodnight, Mr. Barrow.”

“Goodnight, Lady Mary.”

He watches her leave until darkness envelops her and he can see no more. As he makes his own way downstairs, Thomas places a hand over his heart. An emotion that he has probably felt for years but never quite acknowledged or given a name to now sings from every bone in his body.

He loves the Crawleys. They may not be _his_ family, but they are _the_ family and in that way, they are his. They belong to him as much as he belongs to them. Images of George and Sybbie and whatever little girl Mary has in her womb growing up flash through his mind. First lost tooth (Sybbie’s ripe for that one), learning to swim, to ride horses and bicycles, first crushes and heartbreaks, first London Season.

He imagines that George will grow up to be a fine gentleman, with ladies falling over themselves for his blond hair and blue eyes. But he won’t be some Casanova. He’ll marry young, to a sweet girl from a good family.

Sybbie will be the belle of the ball, enchanting everyone around her with her wit and beauty. Perhaps a kind, well-off man won’t see her father’s past as a chauffeur as a mark against her, or maybe she’ll be like her mother and run off with someone no one expects.

Thomas pauses and leans against the stairway wall as he considers the future of John Bates Jr. The Crawleys will happily take care of his finances, perhaps even pay for his university tuition, but after that? Thomas has no idea. There’s no precedent for the son of a valet and lady’s maid who grows up in the same nursery as an Earl’s grandchildren. Thomas may not care for Bates, but he likes Anna, and is sure that if he inherits their steadfast courage, their child could achieve anything.

_Well, if Bates doesn’t already know that_ , Thomas thinks as he continues on his way to the Servants Hall, _then I’m not telling him._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than the first, because it was just getting so long that I decided to split them up. Thank you for all the encouragement last chapter! I hope you guys enjoy this one as well :D

After breakfast the next day, Carson ushers Thomas into their office. He doesn’t call it _their_ office, of course, but he at least has the decency to call it _the_ office. He sits Thomas down on the other side of the desk and opens a large drawer full of papers.

“Is this about the lightbulbs?” Thomas asks.

“No.” Carson frowns at him as he pulls out a large, leather-bound ledger. “What about the lightbulbs?”

“Mrs. Hughes said you keep them in here, but they need to go in the pantry so people have access to them should a light go out.”

Carson grumbles as he sits down. “No, no, they’re too delicate. Couldn’t possibly trust them with a maid or a footman. I always change the lightbulbs myself.”

“Sir, apparently some lamps in the lesser-used rooms have been out for weeks.” Thomas lays a hand on the desk and leans forward. “It’s alright if you haven’t been able to change them, but you have to let me know if you need help.”

Closing his eyes, Carson grasps his trembling hands together for a moment and sighs. “Yes, yes, of course. That’s what I brought you in here for; to help me.”

“Help you?” Thomas pulls the ledger closer and opens it up.

“This is a record of all the Downstairs finances.” Carson says. “Everything from food, supplies, and equipment, to each worker’s salary.”

Thomas tries to suppress a grin as he turns the pages in search for the salaries. He finds a page full of names and numbers, and begins to read down the list, when Cason slams his hand onto the book, pressing it flat against the desk. Startled, Thomas jumps back a few inches in his chair.

“You do not have the authority to hire or fire, give raises or pay cuts. You will not make snide little comments on who makes less than whom, or who you think is overpaid.” Carson gives Thomas a cold, hard stare. “The wages are based on position, skill, and years of dedication to this family. In fact, you will not discuss wages with anyone other than me, do you understand?”

Thomas nods. “Yes, sir, I understand.”

“Good.” Carson says, sliding his hand off the ledger and flipping it a few pages forward. “Now, what I want you to do, is make note of all the money spent Downstairs.” He points to a number at the top of the page. “This is our weekly budget. _Do not go over the budget_.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Swear it.” Carson says, his frown deepening.

Thomas put his hand over his heart. “I swear I will not go over the budget.”

Carson nods, satisfied. “Now, there may be occasions in which you have some money left over. If the staff is in particular need for a morale boost, you may use it to treat them-- with his Lordship’s permission, of course.”

“Wait, really?” Thomas asks. “I don’t remember you ever--”

“Of course not,” says Carson, holding his head up with pride. “I always put every penny in the budget to use, and I expect you to do the same. However, I do recognize that, well, things happen.”

“Right,” says Thomas. “Things.”

“You, Barrow, will be in control of the ledger for the next two weeks.” Carson says. His hard stare returns with a vengeance, sending chills up Thomas’s spine. “This is a test of not only your abilities as a butler, but of your personal willpower, something with which I know you struggle.”

Clenching his jaw, Thomas holds back a thousand nasty replies, as well as a few reasonable ones, such as the fact that he handled the finances when he was butler for Mark Stiles just fine. Instead, he nods. “I understand, Mr. Carson.”

“Now, I believe we had some repairs done yesterday.” Carson pulls the ledger back and turns it around so it faces him. “How much did they cost?”

“Nothing,” says Thomas.

“ _Nothing_?” Carson blinks at him. “What do you mean, _nothing_?”

Thomas sighs. “It was that Starling fellow, the one who works at Mr. Talbot’s car shop in York. He refused monetary compensation. Apparently it’s a habit of his. But he did get a sandwich from Mrs. Patmore.”

“What a kind gentleman--”

“He was no gentleman.” Thomas snaps. Carson’s face goes red with anger at being interrupted, but Thomas continues before he can say anything. “I served them when he had tea with Branson, Talbot, and Lady Mary. He swore _three_ times in as many seconds.”

Carson’s jaw drops. “He _swore_? In front of _Lady Mary_?”

“Branson tried to tell him to stop, but he _refused_.” Thomas said. His heart begins to pound at the memory, so he crosses his arms and breathes in deep.

“And what did Mr. Talbot say?” Carson ask, leaning forward, his mouth still open in shock.

“Talbot just took it in stride,” says Thomas, “as did Lady Mary. Look, I know Starling’s an old friend of Talbot’s and saved his life and what not, but he and Branson are his _employers_. His behavior was inappropriate.”

“To say the least!” says Carson, slamming the ledger closed.

“Also had some tantrum about how they’re not supposed to thank the help.”

Carson snaps his jaw shut, and his eyes widen. He looks more insulted than Thomas has ever seen him. “ _Thank_ us? What would they _thank_ us for? Doing our _duty_?”

“That’s exactly what I said.” He gives Carson a triumphant smile. “And you know what else I told him? I said ‘working at Downton was as much a privilege as living here,’ and ‘the Crawley’s loyalty to their servants is unparalleled.’”

“Hear, hear!” Carson pounds his fist on the desk. “Good for you, Barrow, standing up to that foul-mouthed troublemaker!”

“I just hope he never comes around on that awful motorbike offering free repairs ever again.” Thomas sighs and uncrosses his arms.

Carson leans in a few inches closer. “Tell me, Barrow, was this man _American_?”

Flashing a grin, Thomas nods. Throwing his head back, Carson roars with laughter. He slaps his knee with his hand and his belly jiggles with every breath. It’s such a sight that Thomas can’t help laughing himself, slipping down his seat as he loses all will to compose himself.

The office door bursts open, and Mrs. Hughes stares down at them. “What on God’s green earth is so _funny_?”

Carson covers his laughter with a cough, while Thomas just hides his face behind his hands as he tries to catch his breath.

“It’s nothing, my dear, nothing at all.” Carson says at the tail-end of a cough. He sits up straight and breathes evenly, but his face is still beet red. “Barrow and I were just going over the weekly ledger.”

Mrs. Hughes purses her lips and cocks an eyebrow. “The ledger, eh?”

“It’s true!” Thomas says as he straightens out his livery. “Mr. Carson is giving me control for the next two weeks as a test.”

“ _Really_?” she asks, her voice high with excitement. She bounces into the room and pulls Thomas out of his chair and into a tight hug. “Oh, I _knew_ you were ready, Thomas. You’ve matured _so much_. I knew that with just a little help you’d make a _fine_ butler!

“Speaking of a little help,” says Thomas, patting Hughes’s back. “Have we thought of hiring a new nanny?”

Mrs. Hughes releases him and looks back and forth between Thomas and Carson. “What’s wrong with the one we have now?”

“Barrow, our current nanny is perfectly fine.” Carson says, his brow furrowed, the moment of laughter forgotten.

Thomas shakes his head. “No, no, I meant an extra nanny. I was up in the nursery last night and the woman is _exhausted_. There are three children and one more on the way. I think another nanny would be a great help.”

“Hmm.” Mrs. Hughes taps a finger to her chin in thought. “The babies will need more special attention than George and Sybbie. Splitting the work could make sure none of the children are neglected.”

Carson tilts his head to the side for a moment, then nods. “I shall discuss the matter with his Lordship and Lady Mary.”

“We should probably ask what Nanny Ellis thinks, as well.” Mrs. Hughes says.

“Ellis!” Thomas snaps his fingers. “ _That’s_ what her name is.”

Carson and Hughes stare at him.

Thomas scratches the back of his neck. “It, ah, had slipped my mind.”

“Pray that nothing else slips, Mr. Barrow.” Carson says. “I do believe it is time for you to begin your work day.”

“Of course, sir.” Thomas nods. “And thank you for this opportunity.”

The corners of Carson’s mouth twitch. “You’re very welcome, so long as you don’t disappoint.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Before you go,” says Carson, pushing his chair back, “please put these in the pantry.”

He stands and turns to pick up a cardboard box about two feet wide and ten inches deep. The faint sound of glass clinking together can be heard from inside. Carson holds it over the desk and transfers it carefully into Thomas’s arms.

“Ah, the light bulbs.” Thomas says. He tries to look inside through the flaps, but all he sees is darkness.

“There might already be a few broken ones in there.” Carson says, eyeing the box like it personally disappointed him. “Please remove them before starting your rounds, then join me, Lady Mary, and Mr. Branson in the study at 10 o’clock to discuss this week’s expenses. Bring the ledger. Our goal is to give Lady Mary whatever she wants, while remaining within the budget.”

Thomas nods and bids Mrs. Hughes goodbye before carrying the box out of the office, down the hall, and into the pantry. He carefully sets the box down and pulls it open to look inside. About 20 bulbs glint in the light, looking like the delicate eggs of a particularly fertile bird. Kneeling down next to it, he reaches inside and begins to examine them one by one.

He only finds three broken bulbs, and feels strangely satisfied when he tosses them in the bin.

Thomas takes a swift lap around the house to check in on everyone and their chores. In the kitchen, Daisy washes dishes, while Mrs. Patmore begins to cook lunch. In the boot room, Bates brushes dust from one of his Lordship’s jackets. Outside, the gardener pulls weeds from under the rose bushes. Upstairs, Thomas can find Andy polishing silver, and gives him a few tips on how to get a better shine out of the forks. In a hallway, he runs into Anna carrying an armful of Lady Mary’s dresses, on her way downstairs to mend them. He can’t seem to find Baxter, so he heads for Lady Grantham’s room.

He stands outside the door and listens until he can hear two muffled female voices.

Last stop is the best stop: the Nursery.

It’s a warm, welcoming place, if a bit small compared to the grand bedrooms throughout the house. Still, Thomas loves it because it contains his favorite people. Master George knocks over the tower of blocks he was building and rushes over to Thomas, who sweeps him up and spins him around.

“Good morning, Master George!” he says as he sets the boy back down on his feet.

Sybbie pushes past George and into Thomas’s arms. “Good morning, Mr. Barrow!”

“And good morning to you, too, Miss Sybbie.” Thomas says as he spins her around as well.

In the corner, the nanny feeds John Jr a bottle of milk. She looks up at him with dark shadows under her eyes, but still manages to smile. “Always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Barrow.”

“You too, Nanny Ellis.” Thomas says.

Surprise flashes across Nanny’s face, but then she chuckles, and shakes her head. Thomas sets Sybbie down next to George.

“Have you come to play with us?” Sybbie asks. She tugs on his hand and blinks at him with her doe eyes.

George grips the edge of Thomas’s livery jacket. “Yes, Mr. Barrow, play with us!”

“As much as I would love to play with you,” says Thomas, “I’m afraid I’m only here to say hello.”

George and Sybbie groan, but go back to their toys without much complaint. Thomas walks over to Ellis and looks down at the baby in her arms. He watches him suckle from the bottle for a moment, and somehow, the baby looks sweeter than it did last night. Perhaps looking like his father won’t be so bad.

“And how’s John Jr?” he asks. “Anything to report back to Anna?”

“Oh, everything’s normal here.” Ellis says.

“He cries _all the time_!” says George from where he and Sybbie sit with their new tower of blocks.

Sybbie nods. “And he smells!”

“Well that’s what babies do, isn’t it?” Thomas says, tracing the back of his hand across John Jr’s head. “They cry and they smell, but it’s worth it because they’re beautiful.”

Ellis lets out a happy sigh. “Indeed, they are.”

“He’s not beautiful!” Sybbie stands up and puts her hands on her hips. “He looks like a-- like a-- a turnip!”

Thomas and Ellis both burst out laughing.

“A _turnip_?” Thomas says. He looks closer at the baby, and realizes that with his round head and rosy cheeks-- “Well, you’re not wrong.”

“But don’t think either of you looked any better.” Ellis says with a wag of her finger. “All babies are beautiful, even if some of them go through a vegetable stage.” She leans in closer to Thomas. “Don’t tell Anna I said that.”

“What, that her baby is beautiful?” Thomas places a hand over his heart. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

With the promise of piggyback rides in the afternoon, Thomas says his goodbyes and makes his way back to the office for the ledger. As he walks, he wonders if it might be a good idea to put George and Sybbie into a separate room to sleep in when the new baby arrives. Then, Ellis and the new nanny can alternate which room they watch over, or they can both attend to the babies while the children are fast asleep.

He stops to remind himself that they don’t even have a new nanny yet. _Still_ , he thinks, _it never hurts to think ahead._

After he grabs the ledger, Thomas turns right around to head for the study, where he arrives at exactly 9:53. He knows, of course, because he set the clocks. As under-butler, he used to complain that fixing and setting clocks was beneath him, and while that might still be true, Thomas can’t bring himself to mind. He likes clocks. He understands them. Anyone else would just do it wrong.

Branson and Lady Mary sit while Thomas and Carson stand. He takes careful notes in the ledger on all topics discussed, from groceries and horse feed, to soap and linens. Carson seems to already know how much the house needs of each item, along with which vendors have the best prices.

“Some new cloth napkins would be nice.” Mary says, tilting her head to the side as she imagines them.

Branson huffs. “We don’t need any napkins.”

Thomas and Carson exchange a look. Carson narrows his eyes at Thomas, who swallows down his surprise when he realizes this is his cue.

“The ones we have are wearing down.” Thomas says. “It’s only a matter of time before they get holes.”

“Fine, then.” Branson sighs and makes a note in his own ledger. “How much are they?”

“A set of ten at Foster’s is--”

“Oh, I saw some lovely purple ones in York.” Mary says. “Just a few blocks from the car shop! Remember, Tom?”

“What? No, I don’t remember any purple napkins.” Branson says, shaking his head. “Let’s just get white ones from this Foster’s place.”

Mary makes a sound somewhere between a whine and growl. “But I’m so tired of boring old white napkins. Purple ones will really give the dining room some _character_.”

“The dining room has plenty of--” Branson stops the moment Mary lays a hand over her stomach.

The message is clear: _I am pregnant and you will obey._

Thomas clears his throat. “Perhaps Foster’s will have some purple ones available.”

Carson grumbles. “I doubt it, but I’ll give them a call.”

“And if they don’t have them in purple?” says Branson. “Mary, do you remember the name of the shop you saw them in?”

“Something like Pearl’s or Opal’s. It was a jewel name.”

Thomas writes down _jewel name_ , then crosses it out. “Perhaps we can call Mr. Talbot, and he can check to see what the shop is called.”

Branson reaches for the telephone on his desk, but Carson looks at Thomas like he wants to throttle him.

Mary taps Branson’s shoulder. “No, I’d rather not bother my husband at work.”

“Of course not, milady.” Carson says, still eyeing Thomas as if he were a bug to be squashed. “We mustn’t bother Mr. Talbot with such things. If Foster’s does not carry purple napkins, then Thomas shall go into York to find them.”

“Oh, lovely, he can go in the morning with Henry.” Mary says.

Thomas pales. “What? No, milady, I don’t think that’s necessary. I can take the train or drive myself--”

“Nonsense!” says Mary. “You’re not wasting money on a train ticket when there’s a free ride available.”

“She’s right, Barrow,” says Branson, although there’s something unsure in his expression. “The other car won’t be available tomorrow to drive yourself. Besides, I wouldn’t exactly call you a great driver.”

Thomas scoffs. “I drive perfectly--” Carson shoots him another look. “--alright, but obviously you know more about the subject than I do.”

Branson’s lip curls. “Is that a crack about me bein’ a chauffeur?”

“No, sir, not at all,” Thomas lies. “You own a car shop. You know more about cars than I ever will!”

Branson grumbles, but he seems to accept this. He looks back over his own ledger. “I think we’re done for now. Mr. Carson, you and Barrow are dismissed.”

Carson and Thomas give Branson and Mary a deep nod, then back out of the room. Once out of the doorway, Carson grabs Thomas’s arm and pushes him up against the wall.

“Never, ever, _ever_ ask _them_ to do your work _for_ you.” Carson hisses, bits of spittle landing on Thomas’s chin. “You’ve worked here for _fifteen years_. You should _know_ that by now.”

“I do, I do!” says Thomas as Carson steps away. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand and tries to swallow his disgust. “I wasn’t thinking of it in terms of, of _my work_ or anything, just convenience! If Talbot’s shop is just a few blocks away from the bloody napkins, then it should only take him a few minutes to find them.”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s more convenient.” Carson says, pulling himself to his full height and tipping his head back so he can look down his nose at Thomas. “It is your job. Your _duty_.”

Thomas flexes his jaw in frustration. He wants to tell Carson to fuck off, that his duty has very little to do with napkins. _Good graces_ , he thinks, _good graces_.

“Of course, sir.” Thomas says. “My apologies. It won’t happen again.”

“It better not. Now, go downstairs and call Foster’s to see if they have these…” Carson grimaces, “ _purple_ napkins.”

 

Foster’s does not have purple napkins.

Thomas has to find Talbot when he gets home and explain to him the situation, and they agree that Thomas will join him in the car in the morning, then return on the train once his task is complete. He doesn’t know why, but he always finds it humiliating to directly ask for help. He supposes Carson must feel the same, considering how long it took for him to admit that his trembling hands were a problem. Thomas doesn’t like being _indebted_ to people, or worse, _dependent_ on them.

That night, after he’s written out the day's expenses in the ledger and lies down on what used to be Carson’s bed in the butler’s downstairs bedroom, Thomas feels the scars on his wrists with his fingertips and reminds himself that without other people’s help, he would not be alive.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas runs around York with Starling, but it absolutely is NOT a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok guys, this is a long one. I may have put in too many ANTICS and SHENANIGANS, but I hope you will enjoy them anyway. I tried my best to be historically accurate here, but I took some artistic liberties also. The German magazine Starling gets was a real thing, as was Terry's Chocolate Works, and Terry's Chocolate Apple.
> 
> If you liked it, or have any suggestions, please leave a comment! I love and appreciate and cherish every single one!
> 
> You can also come talk to me on tumblr! I'm chambergambit there as well.

Breakfast the next morning is a bit of a rush, as Mr. Talbot usually leaves the moment he finishes the meal so he can open the shop by 9 o’clock. Once the family is seated and the food served, Thomas has to hurry back to his room to change out of his livery and into a suit more appropriate for going into town.

He spends about five minutes brushing off any fluff from his jacket and trousers, part of him convinced that if Talbot finds any flaws in his appearance, he’ll refuse to drive him to York. It’s complete nonsense, of course, as Talbot already agreed to do it yesterday evening, and doesn’t seem like the type of man to go back on a deal. Besides, Thomas always dresses flawlessly.

_Still_ , he thinks as he adjusts his tie in the mirror, _riding with him will be odd_. Talbot always takes the two-seater, so Thomas will have to sit next to him like an equal. In fact, since Talbot will be driving, it will be as if _he_ serves _Thomas_ , not the other way around.

He can’t quite decide if he likes the idea or not.

With his tie in a perfect Windsor knot and his fedora in hand, Thomas makes his way through the Servants Hall and outside. The money Carson gave him for the napkins clinks in his breast pocket. It’s 25 pence more than cost of napkins at Foster’s, and he is on strict orders to return with the receipt and every leftover penny. He’s a bit insulted at the idea that he would spend the family’s money on himself. Sure, he’s stolen before, or at least tried to, but that was ages ago. He’s better now.

Talbot leans against the hood of his red Triumph 10/20. He smiles and waves when he sees Thomas approach, his footsteps crunching against the gravel.

“Morning, Barrow!” He says. “Ready for our drive?”

“Good morning, sir, and yes.” Thomas says. His breath fogs in the crisp February air, and he wonders if he should have worn a coat.

Talbot glances him over. “That’s a fine suit you’re wearing. You get it in the village?”

“No, sir.” Thomas says. He smiles and holds his head high. “I got it in Thirsk.”

Nodding, Talbot turns to open the driver’s side door. “I’ll have to take a look at the shops in Thirsk, then.”

Thomas walks around to the other side. “Yes, some of them are rather nice.

He climbs in next to Talbot, who turns the key and starts adjusting the stick. The engine rumbles and the car comes to life.

Talbot leans in and winks. “Don’t worry, I won’t go too fast on you. My racing days are over.”

Thomas blinks, not sure how to react to Lady Mary’s husband _winking_ at him. He takes a deep breath and looks out the window as the car pulls away from the house.

“Ah, thank you again, sir, for letting me join you on your way to work.” Thomas says, watching the trees fly by.

“No problem at all,” says Talbot. “Actually, I wanted to get to know you a little better.”

Thomas snaps away from the window and stares at Talbot. “ _What_?”

“Well, you said you’ve worked at Downton for fifteen years, didn’t you?” asks Talbot. “You’ve even known my wife longer than I have. Everyone at Downton seems to have these long histories with each other, while I’m just starting out. I’ve been here nearly seven months, and the only real friend I’ve made is Branson. Sometimes I feel like a transfer student at boarding school.”

Pursing his lips, Thomas considers this. “For what it’s worth, sir, Branson isn’t your only friend. You also have your wife.”

Talbot laughs. “It’s true, Mary is my friend. A marriage without friendship would be an unhappy one, indeed.”

“And you have Mr. Starling.”

“Yes, but he’s outside the Downton Abbey bubble, you know?” Talbot grimaces. “Can’t exactly bring him to dinner with the Earl. Can you imagine him saying _abso-fucking-lutely_ to Lord Grantham?”

Thomas groans and covers his face with his hands. “Good Lord, that would be a _nightmare_.”

“It would traumatize the whole family!” says Talbot with a laugh.

Thomas eyes him for a moment. “Excuse me for asking, sir, I know he saved your life, but--”

“How did I ever make a friend like him?” Talbot shrugs. “I suppose it’s just as they say: war makes strange bedfellows.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Thomas says. He bites the inside of his cheek and wonders just what kind of _bedfellows_ Talbot and Starling were, or even still are.

Talbot sighs. “It’s good to have him here, though. I lost track of him for a while when he has running around Europe doing God knows what. At least in York he can’t get into _too_ much trouble.”

They spend the rest of the ride making conversation about music (Talbot loves Louis Armstrong, while Thomas prefers George Gershwin), films (Talbot can’t wait to see a talkie, which Thomas thinks will never come to Britain), and the new baby (Talbot insists it’s going to be a boy, but Thomas takes Mary’s side).

There’s some traffic once they enter York, but Thomas can’t bring himself to mind. He’s actually having _fun_ with Talbot, who doesn’t treat him like a servant. It’s almost easy to forget that he is one, that when they return to Downton, they can no longer sit side-by-side. The closest they will get is when Thomas serves him tea.

“You see that?” asks Talbot, pulling Thomas out of his thoughts. He points to a building on the corner. Large, loopy letters on the glass window spell out _The Crystal Orchid_. “That’s where I’m taking Mary for Valentine’s day. Starling got us a reservation even though it was supposed to be all booked up.”

Thomas squints at the fancy restaurant as they pass. “How’d he manage that?”

“I think he’s friends with either the chef or the maître d,” says Talbot. “Or both, perhaps. He makes friends with all sorts of people. Don’t know how he does it. You have any Valentine’s plans, Barrow?”

“Ah, no.” Thomas says, shaking his head.

“You sure?” Talbot flashes him a cheeky smile. “No maid caught your eye?”

“Certainly not.”

“How about a footman?”

Thomas nearly jumps out of his seat, knocking his head against the window. “I, I don’t--”

“It’s alright, Barrow.” Talbot reaches out and rubs Thomas’s arm. “I’m sorry I startled you. Starling’s so straightforward about it, sometimes I forget that it’s not normally, ah, a topic to be discussed.”

Rubbing his hand over his face, Thomas sighs. “Don’t worry about it. Sort of an open secret anyway, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring it up again.”

“Understood. How’s your head?” Talbot asks and he pulls his hand away.

“Fine,” says Thomas, even though it still aches.

“Good,” Talbot says, “because we’re here.”

They pull up to a red brick building with wide glass windows on the ground floor, and a green sign on the second floor that reads _TALBOT & BRANSON MOTORS_.

“Talbot and Branson?” says Thomas once they park.

“I know, I know,” says Talbot, opening the car door. “I was supposed to be Branson and Talbot. That’s alphabetical and rolls off the tongue easier, but the painter got it mix up.”

Thomas steps out of the car and takes another look at the sign. “Did the painter refuse to make a new one?”

“He did, said that as long as he spelled the names correctly, we had no right to a refund.” Talbot closes the car door, locks it, then takes out another set of keys to open the shop.

With only the light coming in from the window, the cars in the showroom look like animals waiting to pounce. Then, Talbot flips a few switches, and warm light fills the room. The cars still look a bit like animals, but Thomas supposes that all cars do. They’re living things, in their own way, much like clocks. He strokes his hand across the side of a red Austin 7 and imagines it purring like a cat.

“Care for a cup of tea before you head off?” Talbot asks. He stands at a desk in the back of the room, shuffling some papers.

“Oh, yes,” says Tom, pulling his hand away and taking off his hat. “That would be lovely.”

Talbot walks to a door in the back-left corner of the room, opens it, and sticks his head in. “Starling! Are you decent?”

Thomas steps up behind Talbot to find that he’s shouting up a narrow set of stairs. The scent of coffee drifts down from the room above. A voice responds, and Thomas’s stomach twists at the sound of it.

“Define decent.”

“Ah,” says Thomas. “That must lead to Mr. Starling’s flat.”

Talbot glances back at him. “Yes, he’s made quite a nest for himself up there. Starling, do you have any clothes on?”

“Do long johns count?” Starling asks. “What’s it matter? You’ve seen me in less.”

Thomas raises an eyebrow at this information, but Talbot just rolls his eyes.

“We have a _guest_ , you idiot!” he shouts, cupping his hands around his mouth.

Something upstairs rolls, then falls over, and what sounds like a stack of books comes tumbling down.

Talbot frowns and takes a few steps up, while Thomas remains in the doorway.

“Are you alright?” he asks, tilting his head to the side in concern.

“What?” Starling says over a few more bumps. “Yeah, I’m fine. Who is it?”

Grinning, Talbot glances back at Thomas. “It’s Mr. Barrow.”

“ _Shit_.” There are more bumps and tumbles, followed by even more swearing. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck, _fucking hell_ , god dammit, shit, _fuck_.”

Thomas’s jaw drops open, his mind reeling with what could have warranted Starling’s reaction to his presence. Casual swearing in conversation is one thing, but Thomas hasn’t heard anything like this since the trenches.

“I think he doesn’t have his leg on.” Talbot says. “He hates people seeing him without it.”

“Alright, you can come up!” Starling says. A door slams, then finally, there is silence.

Thomas follows Talbot up the stairs and into the flat, where the coffee scent is stronger than ever. They stand in some sort of kitchen/sitting room/office; with a stove, counters, cupboards, and small refrigerator tucked into one side, a sofa, two armchairs, and coffee table with numerous circle stains in the wood situated in the middle, and a desk covered in schematics and drafts for what Thomas assumes are cars sits at the other end of the room. A white door with peeling paint stands to the right of the desk, adorned with an oval mirror with a purple frame.

On the coffee table sits a small Victrola, a framed photograph of a pale woman with dark hair, and a stack of books in German. As Talbot opens the cupboard doors in search for tea, Thomas sits down and examines the photograph.

The first thing Thomas notices is that her eyes are closed. He can’t think of a reason why someone would have their portrait taken with their eyes closed. Perhaps, he wonders, she did it to show off the copious amount of eyeshadow on her lids. Thomas doesn’t have much of an opinion when it comes to women wearing make-up. Sometimes he will hear people say that a woman who paints her face is _fast_ , or a _slut_ , or even an actual _prostitute_. But women wear make-up for plays and movies, don’t they? To emphasize their features. Surely wearing it off the stage and screen isn’t so bad.

The woman in the photograph is beautiful, with high cheekbones and full lips that have been painted the same dark shade as her eyes. He wonders what she looks like in color.

“Starling, where’s your tea?” Talbot calls out, still searching the cupboards.

Starling answers from the other side of the door next to the desk. “Don’t got any.”

“What?” Talbot turns to glare at the door. “You just bought some two days ago.”

“Traded it for more coffee.” Starling says. “I just brewed a fresh pot. I think you limey fuckers can handle it for one goddamn day.”

Thomas sets the picture down and turns to Talbot. “If we must.”

“Yes, if we must.” Talbot takes out three mugs. “Cream and sugar, Mr. Barrow?”

“Yes, Mr. Talbot, thank you.”

When he finishes, Talbot brings over three steaming mugs and sets them down on the table. Thomas opens his mouth to say something about coasters or saucers, but considers the circular stains that cover the table already, and says nothing.

Talbot sits down next to him and pushes one of the mugs in front of Thomas before picking up one of his own. “It’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”

“What, you serving me?” asks Thomas. He takes a sip of his coffee. “No not at all.”

Talbot laughs, then sits up straighter and turns to face the door by the desk. “You quite ready yet?”

“Just gimme a few…” Starling’s voice fades for a moment. “Ok!”

The door swings open, and Starling steps out in a light grey suit and blue tie. He closes the door behind him and pivots to face the mirror. He makes a face, then loosens his tie and shakes his head so that his hair flops about over his eyes.

“Ah, yes,” says Talbot, watching. “We must always do our best to look artfully disheveled.”

Thomas chuckles at this and takes another sip of coffee. It’s not tea, but it isn’t intolerable.

“Of course,” says Starling as he spins around and steps towards them. “Can’t look too presentable. Someone might mistake me for a person of consequence.”

He drops into the armchair on the other side of Talbot, and slouches down before putting his feet up on the table. Thomas eyes him over his mug.

“I assure you sir, there’s no need to worry about that.” Thomas sips as Starling cackles and reaches for his own mug, its contents much darker than the others.

He takes a long sip, then _wipes his mouth with the back of his hand_. Thomas flexes his jaw at the sight of this, yearning to chastise the uncultured American. Unfortunately, this is Starling’s home, and Thomas isn’t so haughty as to criticize the way someone lives in the place where they do it. Maybe he used to be, but he isn’t any more. He glances at Talbot, who flips through one of the German books, blind to the entire performance.

Starling puts down his mug. “So, to what do we owe the pleasure of Mr. Barrow’s company?”

“I want you to take him to that purple shop.” Talbot says, closing the book and looking up at Starling. “You know, the place where you got your mirror.”

Thomas narrowly avoids choking on his coffee. “What, oh, no, sir, that’s not necessary, I--”

“No, no,” says Talbot with a wave of his hand. “I can’t have you getting lost. I can’t imagine what my wife would do to me if I lost her butler.”

Starling takes his legs off the table and crosses them, resting his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand. “Yeah, the Amethyst doesn’t open until eleven.”

Talbot and Thomas balk at this. Starling shrugs.

“She says eleven is a purple number.” Starling leans back in his chair, looks up at the ceiling, and sighs. “Which is ridiculous because _four_ is purple. Eleven is more of an eggshell.”

Thomas stares at him, his eyes blinking rapidly in confusion. He searches his mind for a reason why the _abstract concept of a number_ would have a corresponding _color_.

Adjusting himself in his seat so that one leg hangs over the chair’s arm, Starling smiles at Thomas. “What d’ya want to go there for? Trying to expand your palette?”

“Lady Mary wishes to have purple napkins to give the dining room more character.” As the words leave his mouth, Thomas realizes how ridiculous it sounds, but resolves to keep a straight face.

Starling cocks his head to the side for a moment, then nods. “Yeah, that makes sense. I only passed through that room once, but it could use a pop of color.”  
                                                                                                                                                                           “So will you take him?” asks Talbot. “I know you have a few errands to run this morning, but perhaps Barrow can tag along until it’s time to get the napkins.

Thomas clenches his jaw. He does _not_ want to tag along with this mad man who doesn’t even own _coasters_.

The Cheshire Cat grin that Thomas saw the day he first met Starling reappears, strange and maddening like the man himself. Heat spreads across his cheeks, and Thomas tells himself that it’s just the coffee. He takes another sip and holds the mug close. He doesn’t drink coffee often, always seeing it as unrefined and foreign compared to a genteel cup of Earl Grey. It also has significantly more caffeine, which may explain why his fingers have started to twitch.

“I would _love_ to have Mr. Barrow accompany me on my errands,” says Starling. “But only if Mr. Barrow agrees to do so.”

Talbot and Starling both look at Thomas. Talbot looks happy and expectant, as if there’s no reason why Thomas should refuse. Starling’s expression is unreadable. Thomas sips at his coffee again. Would it be rude to ask to stay here for another two hours and then go off to find the shop alone? He admits that he doesn’t know York as well as he knows Downton village or Thirsk, but surely, he can find his way.

The image of Thomas returning to Carson and Lady Mary without the bloody purple napkins simply because he refused help from Mr. Talbot’s dear friend and employee appears in his mind.

Thomas sets his coffee down and nods. “That sounds fine.”

‘’Wonderful!” Talbot jumps from his seat and claps Thomas on the back. “I’ll see you back at Downton,” he turns to Starling, “and you in a few hours. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a shop to open up.”

Talbot takes his mug and leaves the room. Thomas watches him go, listening to every step he makes down the stairwell. He stares at the wall as dread floods his entire mind and body.

“You wanna finish your coffee before we leave?”

Thomas looks up to find Starling standing over him, his head tilted so that his unruly mop of hair tumbles over one side. His gaze burns, and Thomas can no longer blame it on the coffee.

“No,” he says, running his hands down the length of his trousers to smooth them out. “I think it’s best that we get this over with quickly.”

He stands, and Starling steps back, blinking as if startled by Thomas’s height. He stands at least five inches over him. Thomas smiles. He’s always been pleased with his six feet, one and a half inches, but at this moment it seems almost like a personal achievement instead of an accident of nature.

“Shall we?” Thomas asks, taking his hat from where it rests on the sofa.

Starling grins at him, swaying a bit on his feet. “So we shall, Mr. Barrow.”

He turns around walks over to his desk. From underneath it, he retrieves a leather satchel. He swings it over his shoulder so the strap crosses his chest, then opens it up to dig inside.

“First, we gotta go to the chemist’s,” says Starling. He pulls a grey flat cap out of his satchel and shoves it onto his head. “Then I got a special order I gotta pick up from the book shop, make a withdrawal at the bank, drop a package off at the post office, and check out a Model-T we might wanna buy.”

Thomas puts his own hat on, then stuffs his hands into his pockets. “And by then, the Amethyst will be open?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Starling turns in a circle, frowning as he glances around the room. “Where is… oh, yeah.”

He opens the door next to the desk and disappears inside. Through the open door, Thomas can see a cast-iron bed, unmade, with several books strewn across it. Another tower of books sits on the corner of the nightstand, threatening to fall over. The mere sight of this mess makes him itch. He turns away and sighs.

Starling returns, closing the bedroom door behind him, carrying a brown paper package and an umbrella. He stuffs the package into his satchel and holds up the umbrella.

“Just in case,” he says. “It’s always fucking raining in this country.”

Thomas forces himself not to roll his eyes at this. Instead, he gestures towards the stairwell. “After you.”

“Why, _thank you_ , good sir!” Starling says in an exaggerated British accent as he passes.

With a sigh, Thomas follows him down the stairs and back into the showroom, where Talbot is already discussing the benefits of a used car to a young couple. Thomas tips his hat at them, and Talbot gives him a wave and a smile as he and Starling step out the door.

Starling turns left, and Thomas follows him, weaving his way around the others using the sidewalk. It isn’t quite raining, but the sky is gloomy and dark, and condensation gathers on the windows they pass.

They reach a corner, and to Thomas’s horror, Starling doesn’t look before crossing the street. He steps right into traffic, seemingly unaware of the cacophony of horns and screaming that bombard him as he crosses. By some miracle, he makes it to the other side unscathed. By that time, the street is clear, and Thomas runs across at full speed.

He grabs Starling’s arm the moment he catches up and shakes him. “ _What the bloody hell is the matter with you_? Do you have some kind of _death wish_?”

Starling blinks up at him, his eyes wide and confused “What? _Death wish_? Oh, shit, did I walk into traffic again?”

“Yes, you did, you _inconceivable loon_!” Thomas shakes him again, his heart pounding with anger and, admittedly, concern.

“ _Inconceivable loon_? I am definitely saving that one.” Starling cackles, then leans in, serious. “But don’t tell Talbot I did that, ok? He _hates_ it when I do that.”

Thomas drops his arm and clenches his jaw. “I can’t imagine why.”

“Would you relax?” Starling says, tapping Thomas’s foot with the end of his umbrella. “No one got hurt.”

Closing his eyes, Thomas steps back and reaches into his breast pocket. “I need a cigarette.”

“Ok,” says Starling, his voice soft and quiet.

Thomas leans against a brick wall, pulling out his pack and silver lighter. Starling does the same, except he doesn’t have a lighter of his own. Thomas lights his own cigarette first, then holds the lighter out, staring into space as Starling takes it from him. A click, a sigh, and Starling hands the lighter back to Thomas. His fingers are warm when their hands touch.

They stand for a few minutes in silence, until Starling exhales a long plume of smoke. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

Thomas takes another drag and glances over at him. With his head down and most of his face concealed by his hair, he does seem sorry.

“You are not forgiven.” Thomas says.

Starling nods. “Understood. You ready to keep going? The chemist is at the end of this block.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“What?”

Thomas lifts himself off of the wall and stands over Starling, forcing him to crane his neck back. “I think you’re lying.”

Starling frowns. “Um, no, I’m not. It’s right there, you can see the sign.”

“I’m not talking about the bloody chemist, you idiot.” Thomas drops his cigarette and crushes it underfoot. “I’m talking about the Amethyst. I think you lied when you said it opens at eleven.”

“Why would I lie about that?” Starling steps closer, tilting his head to the side.

Thomas pushes him back. “Because it’s _absurd_. It’s _completely ridiculous_. No shopkeeper would open so late because _eleven is a purple number_. Numbers don’t _have_ colors, they’re _just numbers_.”

Starling leans back against the wall again and crosses his arms. “If I were lying, wouldn’t I come up with a better lie than that?”

“It’s a mad lie because you’re a mad person.” Thomas says through his teeth.

“Alright, I’ll give you that one.” Starling smirks. “But still, why would I lie in the first place? And you can’t say it’s because I’m mad. If I just went around telling random, crazy lies, they’d have locked me up by now. Yet, here I stand, a free man.”

Thomas steps back and lights up another cigarette. “Free beyond all reason. Let’s just get to the fucking chemist, then, alright?”

“Oh, _come on_.” Starling throws his hands in the air in frustration. “You can’t just accuse me of lying then back off when I ask _why_.”

Inhaling the smoke, Thomas closes his eyes and prays that Starling will shut up.

“Tell me,” he says. “Huh? What’s my motive? My _malevolent intent_?”

Thomas stands still, unable to think of a good reason why he would do this. He’s insensible at best and insane at worst, but Thomas can’t bring himself to think of him as cruel, that he would waste at least two hours of another man’s time for the fun of it. One reason, one terrible (wonderful) reason appears again and again.

“Well?” says Starling.

Opening his eyes, Thomas wills his body not to tremble. “You want to spend time with me.”

Starling blinks, his mouth falls open and he turns away, scratching the back of his neck. He takes a deep breath and sighs.

“I’m not lying,” he says. “We can go to the Amethyst right now. The hours are painted on the window.”

Thomas shakes his head and starts walking up the block. “No, let’s just go to the chemist and the post office and all the other places you need to go.”

“Alright,” says Starling, falling into step with him, “but for what it’s worth? This definitely wasn’t my idea. This was all Talbot and Mary.”

Thomas glances at him with a small smile. “Yes, I realize that now.”

“Don’t hold it against them. They mean well.”

“I won’t.”

Thomas won’t because he _can’t_. They are part of the family he serves. He cannot serve and hold a grudge at the same time. He sighs as they approach the chemist. This setup was completely stupid, but Thomas is sure Talbot and Lady Mary must feel particularly clever.

_Oh yes, let’s play cupid with our pet poofs! They’ll live happily ever after just like us! They definitely won’t get sacked or arrested or murdered in the streets._

Starling pulls open the door to the chemist’s and holds it for Thomas to step in. It’s so bright inside compared to the grey overcast outside that Thomas has to blink and rub his eyes until they adjust. Starling takes his place in the queue, while Thomas stands off to the side, looking at a display of magazines. _The Sketch_ is right on top. He smiles as he picks it up and flips through it.

Over the years, Thomas has become rather fond of Lady Edith, even though he’s rarely had the opportunity to show it. He’s rarely had the opportunity show anyone that he was fond of them, and such people have been few and far between. He always saw Edith as an underdog, spending a lifetime fighting for a spotlight that always favored her elder sister. Now, she runs a successful magazine and outranks her entire family.

He can’t help but feel rather _proud_ of her, although he doesn’t know how she’d react to that information.

Thomas hopes she visits soon.

He’s about halfway through some article about a fashion designer named Madeleine Vionnet when Starling popped up beside him.

“Fan of the bias cut?” he asks. “Better than these glorified sacks women have been all about lately. What’s the point of a dress if it doesn’t show off what you got?”

Thomas looks up to find Starling just inches away from him, his neck angled to see the magazine in Thomas’s hands. Swallowing, Thomas shoves the magazine back onto the stand and takes a step to add some distance between them.

“I wouldn’t know.” Thomas says. “Are we finished here?”

Starling smiles and holds up two glass bottles of pills, shaking them like maracas. “I got what I came for. You want the magazine?”

“No,” says Thomas, putting his hands in his pockets. “I’m sure there’s a copy at home.”

“Does everyone at Downton read _The Sketch_ or is it just you?” Starling asks as he opens his satchel to place the pill bottles inside.

Thomas shakes his head, moving towards the exit with Starling close behind. “Lady Edith-- that is, Lady Mary’s younger sister-- runs it, so there’s always at least one copy lying around.”

They step back out onto the gloomy, wet sidewalk. Thomas looks up at the grey skies, and a raindrop falls on his cheek. He waits a moment, but feels nothing. No need to use the umbrella yet.

Starling taps him on the shoulder. “This way.”

Thomas follows him around the corner. More and more people in dark suits and hats trickle onto the sidewalk. He catches the eye of a short, portly old man who scowls at him as they pass. His chest tightens, and he looks back over his shoulder, but the man has disappeared into the crowd.

What was _that_ look for?

Did he see Thomas and Starling and just _know_?

They aren’t even together-- well, yes, they’re running errands together, or at least Thomas is accompanying Starling on _his_ errands, but they’re not--

A hand on his shoulder stops him in his tracks. Starling blinks at him, his brow furrowed.

“What’s the matter?” he asks. “You look like you’re about to lose it. What’re you losin’ it for?”

Thomas pushes him away and continues walking. “I’m not _losing_ anything.”

“Alright, if you say so.” Starling says as he bounds to catch up with him. “You can ask, if you want.”

“Ask?” Thomas frowns at him, but Starling only shrugs.

“About the meds. You can ask.” He pats his satchel and smiles. “Most people, when they find out another person is taking medication, they want to know what it’s for.”

Thomas eyes the satchel. “It’s none of my business.”

“In most cases, yes.” Starling says. “In most cases, you’d have to wait until you had the chance to snoop through someone’s cabinets to find out, but in this case, I’m giving you permission to just ask.”

For a moment, he considers this. “Why give me permission?”

“Because I don’t want you to jump to any weird conclusions,” says Starling with a wry smile. “Or to snoop through my shit.”

“I wouldn’t--”

“Yes, you would.”

Thomas sighs and flexes his jaw. They come to a cross street and Starling makes a big show of looking both ways before they head to the other side.

“Fine.” Thomas says. “What are the pills for?”

“Sleep,” Starling slows down and holds out a hand to count the shops they pass, “and back pain.”

“Perhaps if you didn’t slouch, your back wouldn’t be in pain.” Thomas says as they come to a stop in front of an unmarked red door. “Where are we?”

“Honey, the pain’s why I slouch in the first place,” says Starling. He glances back at him before he steps up to the door and knocks for times. “And we’re at the bookshop.”

Thomas looks around for a sign, or a window, or any indication that behind that red door, there will be books. A full minute passes, and Starling knocks again, harder.

The door cracks open, and a bald man with a thin moustache pokes out his head.

“What you want?” the man asks. Thomas cannot place his accent.

“You know what I want.” Starling says, crossing his arms. “The 1925 _Der Eigene_. I payed up front for it a _week_ ago. Back then, you said it was in transit. I want it _now_.”

The man grumbles, then pulls his head back and closes the door.

Thomas rolls his eyes. “Lovely shop. Very hospitable.”

“Shut up.” Starling glares at the door. “He’s getting it.”

“Is there not another bookshop we can go to?” Thomas asks, wary of the people passing by. “A _real_ one?”

Starling looks back at him. “What d’ya mean _a real one_? Is this imaginary?”

“Considering that there is no sign and we aren’t allowed inside,” says Thomas, “I would not be surprised if this did turn out to be a figment of your imagination.”

The door opens, and a hand holding a brown package about the size of _The Sketch_ slithers out like a snake. Starling takes the package, and the hand retreats. The door closes, and with a click, locks. Tearing the package open, Starling pulls out what appears to be a white magazine with the portrait of a handsome man on the cover. Thomas steps closer to take a better look, but Starling rolls the magazine up and starts pounding on the door again.

“This is the _1924_ issue, asshole!” he yells, earning several looks from passersby. “This is _not_ what I paid for!”

“Oh, bloody hell.” Thomas grabs Starling by the waist and pulls him away from the door. “Get ahold of yourself, man!”

Red-faced with anger, Starling inhales like he’s going to start yelling again. Thomas covers his mouth with his hand.

“Would you _stop_?” he hisses. Starling glares at him and grabs his wrist, his palm burning against his skin. “You’re making a bloody scene!”

Thomas drops his hand from Starling’s mouth, but Starling maintains his grip on his wrist, tight enough to hurt. He takes several deep breaths, and his grasp begins to ease. Thomas stands close, hoping his presence will keep the other man calm.

A callused thumb swipes across the scar on his wrist. Thomas snatches his arm back, holding it in his gloved hand, close to his chest. Starling looks down at his feet, his own hands rubbing the sides of his neck.

“I’m sorry.” Starling says without looking up. “I didn’t mean-- I wasn’t trying to, to feel it.”

Thomas wants to yell at him, to make an even worse scene, to berate Starling until he’s on his knees, begging for forgiveness.

“It’s alright.” Thomas says. The words surprise him, along with the next ones. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know it was there.”

Starling takes off his hat and runs his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry for losing it, too. I don’t make a lot of, um, personal purchases, so…” He sighs, putting his hat back on. “I’m sorry.”

For a moment, Thomas examines him, from his thoroughly scuffed wingtip shoes, to his grey suit maybe half a size too small for him, to his cap covering his unruly hair. It’s the kind of cap Jimmy Kent liked to wear. Something in his heart unwinds, and he reaches out again to put a hand on Starling’s shoulder.

“I’m sure there’s another way to order German magazines.”

Starling looks up at him with a small smile. “Not this one.”

“Why?” Thomas asks. “What is it?”

“It’s for people like us.” Starling says. He unrolls it and puts it into his satchel with his other things. “Can’t seem to find a British equivalent.”

“Well, there’s the _Link_ , but I’m not sure if it’s still being published.” Thomas says, dropping his arm and putting his hands in his pockets.

Starling nods. “Yeah, I looked into that. Couldn’t find a copy.”

“Where to next?” Thomas asks.

“Post office.” With that, Starling starts walking again, and Thomas follows. “Gotta send a belated birthday present to my sister back in Brooklyn.”

Thomas remembers the woman in the photograph back at Starling’s flat. “Oh? When was her birthday?”

“ _Our_ birthday is January 11th.” Starling says.

“There’s that purple number again.” Thomas says. Starling gives him a shove, and Thomas laughs. “No, not purple, _eggshell_. My apologies.”

“Aw, you remembered,” says Starling. “Anyway, I got her this peacock hairpin that Mary picked out.”

“Really? When did Lady Mary do this?” Thomas asks. “Didn’t you just meet her a few days ago?”

Starling laughs. “Actually, Branson picked it out.”

“ _Branson_?”

“Yeah,” says Starling. “We were walking back from some investors meeting and he pointed to it in a shop window. Says ‘you should get something like this for your sister,’ and when I ask why he suggested a hairpin, he insists that it was Mary’s idea.”

“I’m inclined to believe him, to be quite honest.” Thomas says, mulling it over in his head. “I can’t imagine Branson knowing anything about women’s fashion accessories.”

“We all have our secrets.”

Thomas smiles. “We do indeed, Mr. Starling, we do indeed.”

“You can call me Seth.” He rubs the back of his neck and avoids Thomas’s eye. “You know, if you want.”

Biting his lip, Thomas shakes his head. “I, er, I don’t think that’s for the best.”

Starling glances at him with an arched eyebrow. “Well, at least have the decency to _not_ call me _mister_.”

“If you insist, Starling.” Thomas claps him on the shoulder. “But I’m afraid I _am_ Mr. Barrow to you.”

Thomas laughs as Starling groans with disappointment.

 

The post office is largely uneventful. Thomas helps Starling fill out the several pages of paperwork required to send a package overseas. Along with the hairpin, Starling has three different scientific journals to send to his sister, who apparently works in fancy university library by day and sings jazz in speakeasies by night.

“Why the fuck is expedited shipping so expensive?” Starling mutters as he gathers his papers together. “Shit, we should’ve gone to the bank first. I hate writing cheques.”

“I’m sure your sister will appreciate it.” Thomas says. He stands next to Starling in the queue to drop off his package. “What did she get you for your birthday?”

“Hmm?” Starling worries at a small tear in the wrapping of his package with his finger. “Oh, Sil sent me the money to get out of Germany and set me up over here.”

Thomas eyes the address to _Silvia Starling_ on the package. He wants to say that Sil is a poor nickname for Silvia, which should be spelled with a Y anyway, but keeps his judgements to himself. Americans spell all sorts of things wrong. Their own names are probably no different.

When they reach the front of the queue, Thomas half-expects Starling to sign his cheque with star, much like he did his postcard to Mr. Talbot, but instead his signature is an incomprehensible series of bumps and loops with a line running through it. He finds he rather liked the star better.

Once they leave the post office, rain comes down in sheets, and finally the umbrella Starling was prudent enough to bring comes into use, although Thomas has to hold it because he’s taller. Sharing an umbrella also means that they must walk shoulder-to-shoulder. Starling shifts his satchel so that it hangs on the other side of him, and doesn’t constantly bump into Thomas’s hip as they walk.

Now there’s nothing between them but clothing. How such a small man can radiate so much body heat is a mystery to Thomas. He both wants to repel and cultivate that heat, push it away and cover every inch of it with his hands and mouth.

He swallows, glad that Starling cannot read his mind, but then Starling glances at him, and in a moment of utter irrational panic, Thomas wonders if he can.

Shaking his head, he pushes the thought away and focuses on keeping his eyes on the bank ahead. He only feels this way because it’s been so long. Starling isn’t _un_ attractive, but he’s not the type Thomas prefers: tall, broad, masculine men, with refined features and mannerisms. Blond is plus, as is a strong jaw and plush lips and a pair of nice hands with long fingers, like a piano player.

Thomas scowls. Now he’s just thinking of Jimmy.

When they reach the bank, Thomas holds back. “I think I’ll stay outside for this one.”

One hand on the door, Starling looks back at him and frowns. “But the rain?”

“I like the rain.” Thomas says. He prays that Starling will not argue further, and sighs with relief when he enters the bank without another word.

He uses this time to enjoy another cigarette, the smoke calming his wretched nerves with every inhale. Thomas hasn’t heard from Jimmy since he left. He has no idea if the stupid boy he loved is even still alive.

Thomas takes another drag and peeks up at the dark clouds. Did he really _love_ Jimmy? He thought he did, at the time. He thought he did when he kissed him, and afterwards when he was nearly sacked for it. Thomas loved Jimmy while Jimmy hated him for it. Even after the fair when he took that beating and Jimmy only became his friend out of guilt, Thomas loved him.

He loved him even when he gave himself those useless, _useless_ injections.

_At least I don’t love him now_. Thomas thinks as he drops the cigarette on the wet sidewalk and lights up another. He isn’t entirely sure if that’s true or not, but he wants it to be.

Thomas examines his reflection in the rain-streaked bank window. He turns 36 this year and closest thing he’s ever felt to real love was for an arrogant, beautiful young man who didn’t love him back, didn’t even write when he had to leave.

“ _I hope you do find some happiness_ ,” Jimmy had said when he left. “ _I hope you do_.”

Starling, standing in his third queue of the day, sees Thomas looking in the window and gives him a small wave. More wiggling his fingers than anything. Thomas smiles and wiggles his fingers back.

He hopes Starling knows that Talbot loves him. Maybe it’s not romantic love -- Thomas has his suspicions, but they’re only that -- but it is love. That’s the only reason Thomas can think of for a gentleman like Mr. Talbot to put up with a barmy American queer like Starling. Maybe saving Talbot’s life is what made Talbot love him in the first place, or maybe Talbot loved him already _._

_War makes strange bedfellows._

When Starling comes out of the bank, stuffing a thick wallet into his breast pocket, Thomas asks, “How did you meet Mr. Talbot in the war? He talks about you like you were in the same division.”

“You’re asking the wrong questions.” Starling says as he pulls Thomas’s arm to get him walking again.

“The wrong questions?” Thomas balks at him. “What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?”

Starling pulls him around a corner and picks up the pace. “Why are Brits always calling hell _bloody_? With all the fire, I’d assume any wounds would be cauterized. Not that I believe in hell, of course.”

“What’re you on about now, you--”

Starling stops, and Thomas stops with him. He grins at Thomas, who returns it with a hard stare.

“You smell that?” Starling asks.

“Smell what?”

“Just...” Starling inhales deeply through his nose, indicating for Thomas to do the same.

Rolling his eyes, Thomas takes a deep breath. He smells rain and stone and--

“Chocolate?”

Starling nods and points to a large, red brick building with a tall clock tower across the street.

“Terry’s Chocolate Works,” says Starling. “Just opened. There’s about three hundred people in there making the best chocolate in the country.”

Thomas narrows his eyes. “I don’t know about that. Have you had one of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk bars?”

“The fuck is a _Dairy Milk_ bar?” Starling says, making a face. “I’m talking about _chocolate_ , Mr. Barrow. You are at least _somewhat_ familiar. You could recognize the scent.”

“I am perfectly familiar,” says Thomas, “more familiar than you, since you’ve never even had a--”

Starling takes off across the street, one hand on his hat has he runs, dodging cars and along the way. Thomas shouts after him, his heart thundering like it did just hours ago when the fucking loon did the same thing. Starling whips off his hat and waves at him from the other side, ginning.

Thomas, like a civilized human being, waits until the street is clear to cross. He smacks Starling shoulder when he reaches him.

“Why’d you do that _again_?” Thomas says, smacking him one more time for emphasis.

Starling just laughs and puts his hat back on. His unruly hair is even worse now, wet and windswept. Raindrops trickle down his neck and past his collar. Something in Thomas’s chest twists, and he firmly reminds himself that this man is _not_ his type.

“ _Well_?” Thomas says.

Starling takes his arm and pulls him towards a little building by the clock tower. “I’m buying you a chocolate apple.”

“You are buying me nothing.” Thomas says, trying to shake off Starling hand.

“Nope, sorry.” Starling winks at him. “The decision has already been made.”

Starling drags Thomas into a small chocolate shop. It takes Thomas a moment to close the umbrella before he can take a look at the confections inside, and when he does, Starling is already accepting a paper bag from the clerk at the counter.

“Thank you very much,” says Starling as he takes the bag.

The clerk smiles. “It’s our pleasure. Please come again!”

“I certainly will.”

With that, they’re out in the rain again. Starling takes the umbrella and shoves the paper bag into Thomas’s hands.

“You don’t have to eat it now,” says Starling as he opens the umbrella. “Maybe after lunch.”

“Don’t try to dictate my meals.” Thomas snatches the umbrella and holds it over both of them. “And don’t buy me chocolates. This isn’t a-- isn’t a--”

“Date?” Starling cocks his head and smiles. “Of course not, we’re just running errands. Just gotta look at the Model T, and then it’s the Amethyst for your Lady’s napkins.”

Thomas grits his teeth, but nods. “Exactly.”

They walk the rest of the way in silence, with Thomas using all his willpower to convince himself that he is not charmed by Starling’s antics. He is not some 16 year old girl, easily swooned by a box of overpriced (what even was the price? He didn’t see) chocolates. He hasn’t even tasted them. He doesn’t know if they’re even any good. Starling might say they’re the best in the country, but he’s an idiot who doesn’t know what a Dairy Milk Bar is.

Ahead of them, a young couple walks hand in hand. _Their_ stroll by the river in the rain may be romantic, but it is not for Thomas and Starling. Thomas watches the man kiss his sweetheart’s hand. She wears an engagement ring. In crook of her arm, she carries a picnic basket. With the way they keep giggling and kissing, Thomas wonders if the engagement just happened. Maybe the man planned out the picnic, but then it rained. Perhaps his girl asked what he was so upset about, it’s just a picnic, and then he pulled out the ring and--

“Here we are.”

Starling stops in front of a closed garage door. He knocks twice and it rolls open to reveal a haggard old woman and a contorted pile of metal that might, at one point, have been a Model T, but certainly wasn’t anymore.

“You Talbot and Branson?” the woman asks, looking the two of them up and down.

Thomas looks to Starling, who seems paralyzed at the sight of the car.

“We are associates of the company.” Thomas says.

“Well, here’s me car.” The old woman gestures to the pile of junk. “Man on the telephone said you’d give ten pounds for it.”

Starling whips around to glare at her, his face red. “ _Good condition_. We only take Model Ts in _good condition._ ”

The woman shrugs. “So it’s got a few bumps, what of it?”

“Ma’am, are you sure there isn’t a _different_ car you wish to sell?” asks Thomas.

She sneers at him. “Only car I got.”

“This,” says Starling, pointing at the supposed Model T, “is not a car. It _might_ be an art piece. If it’s an art piece, there are some curators in Paris I can put you into contact with. But it is not a car.”

“Sure it is!” the woman says, giving the pile a kick. “Me husband drove it every day for fifteen years.”

Thomas clears his throat. “And where is your husband now, ma’am?”

“He’s in the family plot,” she says. “Although there might be some pieces of him still in there. Have a look.”

Starling’s eyes widen, and he steps forward as if he might actually take her up on it, but Thomas grabs his arm and pulls him away.

“My apologies, madam,” says Thomas as he drags Starling backwards. “Talbot and Branson Motors will not be able to take your car off your hands. Perhaps a scrap yard.”

The woman grumbles and pulls the garage door down with remarkable strength. Thomas takes them around the corner before he breaks down laughing. Starling leans against a wall, then slips down to the sidewalk and holds his head in his hands.

“I should have specified on the phone.” Starling says. “I should’ve told her that good condition means _I can drive it back to the shop_.”

Catching his breath, Thomas tucks the hook of the umbrella into his elbow and lights up a cigarette. “I doubt she would’ve known the difference.”

“I was serious about the curators, though.” Starling looks up at him, half-soaked from the rain. “She could get big money for that, especially if there’s still human remains in there.”

“Modern art baffles me,” says Thomas. He holds out a hand and helps Starling up onto his feet. “What ever happened to, I dunno, paintings of horses?”

“Fuck paintings of horses.” Starling says. “Or paintings of any other animal. That’s not art, that’s _decoration_.”

Thomas pulls out his pocket watch. “It’s 11:30. The Amethyst should be open by now whether you’re lying or not. Which way?”

“It’s actually just a block over,” says Starling pointing in a direction behind Thomas. “We’ve gone in a nice circle, huh?”

“You’ve been in York, what, a month? And you seem to have the city memorized.” Thomas says as he turns around and begins walking towards their final destination: Lady Mary’s purple napkins.

Starling winks at him for what can’t be the first time, but Thomas isn’t sure he has the count. “I’m a fast learner.

When they cross the street and turn the corner, the sign for Talbot and Branson Motors can be seen behind chimneys, water towers, and other shop signs. After two hours of following this madman around, the sign is a comfort. Thomas decides that, if there’s time, he will drop in on the car shop to thank Mr. Talbot again for bringing him here. When did Carson expect his return, anyway? Long before this, certainly, but Thomas can’t bring himself to mind. He’ll get home before dinner service, at least.

“Here we are!” Starling runs ahead to reach the door. “The Amethyst. One of the most interesting shops in this town, I’ll tell you that.”

Thomas slows down as he takes a look through the window. Inside, items of every shade of purple pile the shelves: lamps, toys, hats, even a row of clocks that range from thistle to indigo. The shop does not specialize in any product, but in a _color_ and all of its manifestations. Thomas is enchanted until his eyes fall on something in the lower-left corner of the window.”

“Starling.” He says. “Starling, come look at this.”

With a sigh, Starling steps away from the door and back under the umbrella with Thomas.

“What?” he asks.

Thomas points to the hours painted on the window in elegant, lavender lettering.

_Open Monday through Friday_  
9am to 6pm  
Closed Christmas

The color drains from Starling’s face. He drops down to his knees and presses his hand against the glass.

“This,” he says, narrowing his eyes, “this is new. See? The nine is slightly darker than the other letters, and you can see the outline of where the eleven used to be--”

Thomas closes the umbrella and steps into the shop, leaving Starling alone in the rain. He examines the various displays of purple items, including a chess set in a glass case in the center of the shop. With a smile, he approaches the girl at the counter, even as Starling pounds on the glass and shouts at him.

“Good day, ma’am.” Thomas says. “Terrible weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

The girl, a tall redhead with a thousand freckles, nods. “It is indeed, sir. I do hope it clears up soon. Is there anything I can help you find?”

Starling bursts through the door, dripping all over the hardwood floor. “I did _not_ lie to you, I swear to god!”

“What is your name, if you don’t mind my asking?” Thomas asks to draw the girl’s attention away from Starling, who continues to declare his honesty.

“My name is Ingrid, sir.” She says.

Thomas’s smile widens and he takes of his hat. “That’s a lovely name, Ingrid.”

Ingrid ducks her chin and laughs. “Oh, thank you sir.”

“Mr. Barrow, please. I told you when you first said I was lying that we could check the hours then and there.” Starling comes up to the counter and takes his arm. “Why would I say that if I knew they were gonna say nine?”

Thomas glances at him. “Sod off, will you?” He turns back to Ingrid. “I have been sent to your lovely shop to purchase a set of cloth napkins. Could you help me find them?”

“Oh, yes! We have sets of napkins in five different sha--”

“Who the hell are you?” Starling slams his hands on the counter and glares at Ingrid. “Where’s Hilda?”

Ingrid gapes at him, appalled. “Sir, if you please, I am with another customer!”

“I was here _three days ago_ ,” Starling hisses, “and three days ago, this place opened at _eleven_ because _Hilda_ said it was a _purple number_ , even though it _isn’t_ , it’s _eggshell_.”

Thomas grabs Starling by the shoulders and drags him back from the counter, paying no attention to his struggles or demands to be released. He stops him in front of the clock display and covers his mouth with his gloved hand.

“ _You_ ,” Thomas says, his voice low so that Ingrid can’t hear him, “will stand here _completely_ still and in _complete_ silence until I have purchased my fucking napkins. Then, and _only_ then, will you ask Miss Ingrid about the hours.” Starling grunts behind Thomas’s hand, but doesn’t move. “When you ask, you will be calm, you will be polite, and you will _not_ , under any circumstances, _swear_. I don’t care if it turns out she _murdered_ the other shopgirl in order to take her place. You will not utter anything rougher than _good golly gosh_. Do you understand?”

Starling glowers at him for a moment, his eyes as stormy grey as the skies outside, but nods. Thomas lets him go, then walks back over to Ingrid, who gulps as he approaches.

“Forgive my friend over there.” Thomas says, flashing her his best grin. “He is simply passionate, if a bit prone to delusion. Now, where are these napkins?”

Ingrid shows him napkins in five shades of purple, each with their own name Thomas doesn’t quite agree with, particularly _orchid_ and _persian plum_ , which he considers more of a light pink and a merlot, respectively. He picks the middling shade, called _eminence_ , and the napkins end up costing the exact amount of money that Carson gave him.  He thanks Ingrid, puts his receipt in the bag, and steps aside.

Starling approaches the counter with his cap in his hands and his head held high. He and Ingrid stare at each other for a full ten seconds before one of them speaks.

“In my last visit to this establishment,” says Starling, “There were different hours listed on the window and a different woman running the shop. Would you be so kind as to tell me what happened to Hilda, and when the decision was made to open the shop two hours earlier than before?”

Thomas arches an eyebrow, almost impressed. Starling must have rehearsed this in his head while Thomas bought the napkins.

Ingrid purses her lips for a moment, then answers. “My Auntie Hilda fell ill the day before yesterday, so I volunteered to mind the shop for her. I changed when we open to a more sensible hour yesterday morning.”

“Wait, Hilda’s sick?” Starling’s eyes widen. “What’s wrong with her? How bad is it?”

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business, sir.” Ingrid says, jutting out her chin.

Starling flexes his jaw, licks his lips, then leans in a few inches closer. “How can I _help_ if I don’t know what’s _wrong_?”

“Well,” says Ingrid with a wave of her hand, “you can always help by making a purchase from the shop.”

He glances around at the various items in their various shades of purple, and frowns. “What’s the priciest thing you got?”

“The chess set,” says Ingrid, “but I doubt you can afford it. Not to be, ah, judgmental, sir, but you don’t look like the kind of person who even knows how to _play_ chess.”

“I can play chess!” Starling snaps. He swallows, turning to Thomas, who shakes his head in warning. Taking a deep breath, he continues. “My mother taught me how to play. I used to play for hours with my sister, and even played with my fellow soldiers during the war.”

Ingrid sighs. “That sounds lovely, sir, but…”

“But what?”

Starling and Ingrid both look at Thomas, who decides to take a closer look at the chess set in question. He steps up to the glass case, and slowly walks around it. The wooden board is purple, which Thomas assumes is dyed. One set of pieces are carved from some kind of purple stone. Quartz? Thomas doesn’t know enough about minerals to tell. The other pieces are shiny and black, almost metallic.

He finds a white tag tucked between the board and the glass.

_Amethyst/Hematite Chess Set with Folding Board made from Brazilian Purpleheart. £750._

“Seven hundred and fifty pounds?” Thomas looks up at them. “What the-- what hell is Brazilian Purpleheart?”

Starling taps the counter and steps away. “I’ll, um, I’ll need to do some research first.”

“Of course, sir.” Ingrid smiles. “Would you like us to put it on hold for you?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Starling says. “In the meantime, lemme just get…” He waves his hand around until it lands on a bottle of purple ink. “This? Yeah, this.”

He buys the ink. Thomas doesn’t hear the price because his ears are still ringing from the price of the chess set. He has to step as far away from it as possible while still waiting for Starling in the store because being near it makes him nauseous. Thomas can appreciate nice things. He handles nice, expensive things at Downton every single day. But the idea of paying the price of a luxury car for a game rattles him deep.

Starling holds open the shop door, and Thomas quickly steps out.

The rain has stopped. The sun isn’t shining, but the rain has stopped.

“There’s a good fish-n-chips stand by the train station.” Starling says, holding open his purple paper shopping bag and looking down at his ink bottle like he isn’t quite sure what to do with it. “If you’re hungry.”

Thomas perks up at the sound of fish-n-chips. “We have been walking around for two hours.”

Starling looks at him and smiles. “That we have.”

 

The stand _is_ good, with fish golden-brown on the outside, white on the inside, and buttery and delicious with every bite. The chips, salty and perfectly crisp, seems to chase away the day’s woes as Thomas swallows them down, one after another. He and Starling sit on a secluded bench near the station, cradling their newspaper-wrapped food in their laps.

“So how does one become a butler, exactly?” asks Starling between bites. He sits on the bench sideways, with his real leg tucked underneath him and his fake one stretched out to the ground.

“If you’re like me and Mr. Carson,” says Thomas, “you start out as a hall boy and work your way up.”

Starling gives him a tired look. “And a hall boy is…?”

Thomas sets his food aside and scoots closer to Starling. “In a house like Downton Abbey, there’s a hierarchy of servants with the butler at the top and the hall boys at the bottom. Hall boys empty chamber pots, set the table in the Servants Hall, do all the drudgery the other servants don’t want to do.”

“Sounds shitty.” Starling says, still chewing on a mouthful of fish.

Thomas laughs. “Literally. But if you’re a good worker, you can be promoted to footman.”

“Forgive me if I don’t make some kinda foot joke here.”

“A footman serves meals and polishes silver and sometimes serves as a valet if one of the Lord’s guests hasn’t brought one of his one.”

Starling swallows and cocks his head. “The valet’s the one who dresses the fully grown, able-bodied man every morning and then puts him in his pajamas at night, correct?”

“Yes,” says Thomas. “But that’s not all he does. He takes care of the master’s clothes and shoes, packs his bags when he goes on holiday, sometimes even shaves him and cuts his hair. It’s a very prestigious position.”

“This sounds like rich people nonsense.” Starling says before throwing the last bite of his fish into his mouth.

“Rich people nonsense?”

Starling swallows. “You know, the bullshit rich people come up with to convince everybody else that they’re better, like that they need someone to wait on them hand and foot even though they’re perfectly capable of taking care of themselves, and that being the person who does it is a _prestigious position_.”

“It is!” says Thomas, throwing a chip at him.

Starling throws one back. “Where’s the _prestige_ , huh? People care more about a rich man’s _shoes_ than the poor schmuck that polishes ‘em.”

“It’s prestigious in the sense that it’s high up in the servant’s hierarchy,” says Thomas, but his heart isn’t in it. “That and it pays more.”

“You already have a job that gives you a place to sleep and three square meals on top of wages.” Starling says, “Why would you want higher pay? I mean, I’m all for fair wages and all, but what are you even spending money on?”

“Suits, mostly.” Thomas says. “I was always more interested in being higher up on the ladder, myself. Didn’t want to answer to anyone unless I absolutely had to.”

Starling pauses. “I get that. I always hated being told what to do.”

“You let Talbot tell you what to do.” Thomas says.

“Mh, not really.” Starling shrugs. “As long as the cars are fixed in a decent amount of time, he doesn’t really care.”

“That because you saved his life?” Thomas asks.

Starling rolls his eyes and picks the burnt bits of chip out from his newspaper. “I did no such thing.”

“Really?” Thomas asks. “But your leg--”

“If I could survive that grenade, then he probably would have, too.” Starling says. He looks down at his left leg, the prosthetic hidden under shoes, socks, and trousers, then taps the heel on the sidewalk. “And I’m doing fine with my leg. I know guys who by all rights are worse off than I am -- I’m talking legs, arms, and faces, blown right off -- who’re doing just as good, if not better.”

Thomas thinks of Lieutenant Courtenay, but says nothing as Starling continues.

“Talbot always says, ‘Not everyone’s like you, not everyone can keep going, damn the obstacles ahead.’” Starling looks up at Thomas, and Thomas feels his gaze burn through his skin, right to his heart. “But they can. They have. They will. They just need to know that they’re not alone when they do it.”

Looking away, Thomas rubs his gloved hand. He can’t bring himself to rub the scars on his arms, even though Starling already knows they’re there.

“What if they _are_ alone?” Thomas asks.

Starling pauses, thinking. “You know that saying, _misery loves company_?”

Thomas nods.

“Usually it means that miserable people try to make other people miserable, too.” Starling says. “But I think it can also mean that misery tries to convince you that you’re alone, because misery wants to keep you all to itself. But no one’s ever _really_ alone.”

“No one?” Thomas asks. “Ever?”

“There’s almost a billion people on this planet.” Starling says. “I think being alone might be physically impossible.”

Thomas chuckles. “Somehow, that sounds worse.”

A moment of silence passes, then Starling says something terrible.

“I think we could make it work.”

Thomas looks up at him, frowning. “Make what work?”

“This.” Starling waves his hand back and forth between them. “Us. Talbot and Mary clearly think we can.”

Something in Thomas’s insides twists so tight that he has to close his eyes and focus to unwind it. Starling shifts closer to him, his breath warm on his ear.

“I know it had its ups and downs,” he says, “but I enjoyed myself today, and I think you did, too.”

Thomas swallows, hard. “Seth?”

“Yes?” Starling’s smile is audible in his voice.

“I don’t have time in my life for romance.” He opens his eyes and turns to look Starling head-on.

Starling just shrugs. “It doesn’t have to be a romance.”

Heat creeps up Thomas’s neck. “I-- I don’t have time for any of that either.”

“You sure?” Starling asks. He reaches out and tucks a stray bit of hair behind Thomas’s ear, sending electric sparks across his skin.

Thomas nods. “Being butler isn’t just a fulltime job, it’s a _lifetime_ job. I can’t have other… _priorities_ , even just casual ones.”

“More rich people nonsense.” Starling pouts.

“Please don’t take this personally.” Thomas says. He takes Starling’s hand and squeezes it. “The decision was made before I even met you.”

Starling looks down at their clasped hands for a few moments before he squeezes back. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“I won’t push.” Starling says with a tired smile. “But you know where to find me if you ever change your mind.”

He crumbles his fish-n-chip wrappings into a ball and stuffs it into his shopping bag with his purple ink. Stretching out his arms, he stands up from the bench and yawns.

“I’ll see you around, Mr. Barrow.” Starling holds out his hand.

Thomas shakes it. “I’ll see you around, Mr. Starling.”

 

On the train back to Downton, Thomas decides to try his chocolate apple. He opens the box to find a ball a little smaller than his fist wrapped in foil printed to look like the skin of an apple. At the top is a sticker that says _Tap and Unwrap!_

Not sure what else to do, Thomas taps the sticker with his finger, then peels the foil off. Underneath the foil is a ball of chocolate divided into twenty wedges, all stuck together in the middle. As he tries to pull one of the wedges out, he realizes that his tap was woefully insufficient. Smoothing out the foil, Thomas presses it flat against the hard surface of the seat next to him, then takes the ball of chocolate in hand and gives it a firm whack against the seat. The wedges fall apart from the center. Thomas gathers them up in the foil and situates them in his lap.

He holds up one wedge and sniffs it. There’s chocolate, certainly, but also the hint of something tart. Taking a small bite from the corner of the wedge, Thomas lets it melt in his mouth. The chocolate is lovely-- smooth and rich, with just enough of apple flavor to bring new excitement to the treat.

Thomas takes another bite, then rearranges the rest of the wedges as best he can into their original apple shape, covers them with the foil, and puts the whole thing back into the box. There are enough wedges to share with just about everyone at Downton.

Looking out the window and watching the countryside go by, Thomas nibbles on his wedge and considers Starling’s offer. Even if _he_ believes they could, in his words, _make it work_ , Thomas knows that they couldn’t. They’d never see each other enough, for one thing. Their meetings would have to be work related, like today; Thomas coming to York to purchase something for the house, or Starling coming to Downton to make repairs or talk business with Branson and Talbot.

They’d fight too much, Thomas is sure of it. Starling’s strangeness has its charms, but only to a certain extent. Plus, he clearly has no respect for Thomas’s line of work, calling it _rich people nonsense_.

There is an attraction, he’ll admit it, but they’re incompatible. Eventually, Thomas would tire of Starling’s idiosyncrasies, and Starling would grow bored with a lover he rarely saw. He sighs and rests his head on the window. They would not end in _happily ever after_. Perhaps they would part amicably, like they did today, or perhaps there would be tears and heartbreak.

Even worst possible ending holds high probability: sacking and arrest.

It’s not a risk Thomas can take anymore, not if he’s to be butler of Downton Abbey. Maybe if he were still butler for the utterly tedious Stiles house, but he isn’t. He doubts he would’ve even met Seth Starling if he were still butler there.

Still, he hopes they can be friends, or at least friendly.

Thomas could always use more friends.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Carson is not pleased when Thomas returns mid-afternoon, but is somewhat mollified when Thomas explains that there was a mix-up regarding when the shop was meant to open. Thomas doesn’t go into further detail, certain that the whole story would only confuse and upset the poor man. Everyone else downstairs _adores_ the Chocolate Apple when he shares it with them after dinner.

“Thank you so much for the lovely treat, Mr. Barrow,” says Baxter before she bites into her web of chocolate.

“Yes, it’s absolutely delicious,” says Anna.

Mrs. Patmore chews her chocolate thoughtfully. “Interesting combination of flavors. I wonder how they do it up in that factory.”

“Quite generous of you.” Bates turns his wedge over in his hands a few times, eyeing it with suspicion. “I can’t say I recall you buying anything for all of us before.”

“That’s because I didn’t.” Thomas says, as he turns the page of his newspaper. “Mr. Starling bought it.”

The room turns quiet. Thomas looks up to find everyone at the dining table staring at him. Dinner is long over, so “everyone” means Mrs. Patmore, Anna, Bates, Baxter, and Andy. They look at him, then at each other, then down at their chocolate, before turning their gaze back to him.

Thomas frowns. “What? What is it?”

“Mr. Starling bought the chocolate?” Baxter asks. “You saw him while you were in York?”

“Yes?” says Thomas. An uncomfortable heat rises up his neck. “He directed me to the shop where I got the new napkins.”

“Did the shop with the napkins also sell chocolate?” asks Andy, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“What? No.” Thomas says. “We-- we were passing the factory and he said they were making the best chocolate in the country. I disagreed, because, obviously, Cadbury makes the best, so he went and bought me that apple thing to prove a point.”

Anna’s eyes widen, and she fails to hide her smile. “So, he bought the chocolates for _you_?”

Glancing around the table at the people looking at him with strange, _knowing_ curiosity, Thomas gulps. The heat on his neck rises up to his cheeks. “Yes, but, as I said, it was only to prove a point. And anyway, he was wrong. Terry’s chocolate is good, but Cadbury’s is still better.”

Mrs. Patmore, who sits at his right, leans in. “You missed lunch while you were in York. Did you have lunch with him as well?”

His first instinct is to say no, to lie, to say that his only interactions with Starling regarded the napkins and the chocolate. However, Thomas doubts that Starling would confirm that story if asked. His face grows hotter and hotter as he tries to think of what to say.

“Well, did you?” asks Andy.

“I-- yes, alright?” Thomas snaps. “We had fish and chips. What of it?”

Bates smirks. “Did he pay for that as well?”

“No!” Thomas closes his newspaper and all but slams it on the table. “We paid for ourselves! Why do you keep asking about Mr. Starling? Why do you _care_?”

“He just seems very nice, is all.” Baxter says, reaching out to touch his arm.

Thomas jerks her hand away. “Well, he isn’t. He seems nice, but he isn’t.”

“But he did all them repairs for free,” says Andy, “and helped you find the napkins.”

“And took you out to lunch,” says Bates, looking far too amused by the situation.

“He didn’t _take me out_. It was _nothing_.” Thomas stands, his hands flat on the table. “I will hear no more of this.”

He turns, pushing his chair out of the way, and starts heading for his room.

Andy calls after him. “Mr. Barrow?”

“ _What_ , Andy?” Thomas stops in his tracks and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Do you want the rest of Mr. Starling’s chocolate?” Any asks. “Or could I save some for Daisy?”

“It’s not Starling’s--” Thomas grits his teeth. “Do whatever you want with it. I don’t _care_.”

With that, he storms off to his room. It’s a rather unsatisfying storming off, because his new room is so close to the Servants Hall. It would be better if he still had a room in the attic, so he could stomp up all those stairs, but he can’t, so he has to make do with slamming his door, which he immediately regrets.

He leans back against his door and sighs. Losing his temper is _not_ very becoming behavior for a butler. Thomas slides down to the floor and holds his head in his hands. Years ago, when Jimmy had first started working at Downton, he was angry about something. Thomas doesn’t quite remember what. Probably Alfred. But Thomas still fancied himself to be Jimmy’s mentor and said, “ _These things can be managed, but not by losing your temper_.”

Thomas needs to manage this. He needs to make sure that no one, whether it’s Talbot or Baxter or fucking Andy, thinks that there’s anything between him and Starling.

But he’s already lost his temper.

 

The rest of the week is mercifully uneventful. Mary loves her new napkins. Lord Grantham even seems to like them, although he believes they were a frivolous purchase. There’s little talk of Starling both upstairs and downstairs, and the only real drama in the house comes from Branson and his Lordship butting heads about Sybbie’s education.

“She loved school back in Boston,” says Branson to Mary as Thomas serves their tea. “She keeps asking when she’ll start school here.”

“We had a governess, growing up.” Mary says. “She taught us the basics, but not much else.”

Branson nods and sips his tea. “Some French, and how to curtsy.”

Mary laughs. “Sounds like something Sybil would have said.”

“She _did_ ,” says Branson. “And I know she would want Sybbie to have a better education than the one she got. A _real_ education, one that provides her with the means to become anything she wants and not just some, I don’t know, some rich man’s wife.”

“Don’t forget that you’re _talking_ to a rich man’s wife,” says Mary with a wry smile.

“No, I’m not.” Branson says. “I’m talking to the rich wife of some man.”

Thomas lets a smile flicker across his face at that as he pours Branson his cup.

“Edith managed to do rather well for herself despite her lack of a more formal education.” Mary picks up a biscuit and dips it into her tea. “I hear _The Sketch_ is selling better than ever.”

“But she got lucky.” Branson says. “What if she hadn’t written to that newspaper? What if she just married that old fart and spent the rest of her life taking care of him? Would she be as happy as she is now?”

Mary shrugs. “Doubtful.”

Setting down the teapot, Thomas stands up straight and holds his hands behind his back.

“Is there anything else I can get for you, ma’am?” he asks.

“No, Barrow, I believe we’re fine for now.” Mary says before taking a bite of her tea-soaked biscuit.

Thomas exits the drawing room, but remains in the hall to eavesdrop. He stands in front of a painting and puts his hands on the frame, pretending to adjust it should anyone walk by. It’s not the juiciest conversation, but Thomas does care for Sybbie and her future. He doesn’t like the idea of her just marrying off, and with her heritage, it might actually be difficult to do so. The men Lord Grantham would prefer might think themselves _above_ the daughter of an Irish chauffeur.

“Papa’s quite eager to get a proper tutor for George.” Mary says. “Apparently he must prepare for Eton as soon as possible.”

“George has his whole life planned out ahead of him,” says Branson. “Sybbie’s future isn’t so clear. I just want her to have more opportunities than I did.”

“What’s that girl’s school that opened up near Thirsk a few years ago?” Mary asks.

“Queen Mary’s School.” Branson says. “It’s supposed to be good. Maybe I can get his Lordship to take a look at it with me.”

“Ooh, yes, that’s a good idea,” says Mary.

Thomas nods to himself. The Earl has always been stubborn when it comes to change, but he usually relents once he sees the good it does in person.

Mary hums. “Even though it was all we were raised to do, Edith and Sybil both found passions outside of marriage and family. I have to admit, I feel a bit, I don’t know, _behind_.”

“What’re you talking about? You manage the estate with me! You’re great at it.”

“I know, I know, but it’s not the most intellectually stimulating work, is it?” says Mary. “Even you have something _else_ to do, with the motor shop.”

“Talbot does most of the real work, there.” Branson says. “He’s the one actually in the shop, selling cars. I help fix ‘em up with Starling every once in a while, but I’m no good with sales.”

“And how is Mr. Starling?”

Thomas bites his lip and glances up and down the hall. Would it be better to walk away now, get back to work, and pretend Starling doesn’t exist, or to stay and collect information, just in case?

“Actually, he’s been working on new car designs, wants to show them to us once he’s got the schematics down.”

“Oh? What sort of designs?”

Thomas frowns. There were schematics on Starling’s desk, but Thomas had assumed they were for the used cars the shop already sold. He can’t imagine what sort of mad machine he’d create if he had the resources.

“Not sure yet,” says Branson. “He keeps going on about aerodynamics and fuel efficiency, so I reckon he knows what he’s talking about.”

“Where did he study engineering?” Mary asks. “In Berlin?”

Branson laughs. “From what I gather, he was in Berlin for parties and cabarets, not education.”

The conversation devolves into the political state of the former Central Powers, and Thomas grows bored. Reaching into his pocket, Thomas takes out his watch. It’s about time to start his rounds again, checking up on the staff and making sure they’re doing their jobs, helping where he can. He steps away from the painting and heads for the kitchen.

 

On Saturday, Carson oversees as Thomas provides each staff member with their wages. Some, like Bates and Patmore, are paid enough to receive a cheque signed by Lord Grantham himself, while others, like Daisy and Andy, get coins and notes. Each staff member comes to the office and graciously accepts their money.

When Thomas was on the other side of this, he found it humiliating, especially because the amount he earned always fluctuated with his job title. Now, the power of _giving_ instead of _receiving_ is delicious. He can’t help himself from smiling as he hands Bates his cheque in a small envelope. Bates makes more money than Thomas ever did as Lord Grantham’s valet, or even as under butler.

Now? Mr. Thomas Barrow, butler of Downton Abbey, is the third-highest paid member of staff.

He doesn’t even care that Patmore and Hughes make more than him. It makes sense that they do, as they’ve both been here for decades. The person directly under him is Carson, who apparently insisted on taking a pay cut when he stepped back. However, Thomas does not get the pleasure of giving Carson his cheque. Carson takes his and Mrs. Hughes’s envelopes out of the pile on the desk directly, and stuffs them into his breast pocket.

When it’s all over, Thomas holds his cheque in his hands and considers it for a moment before asking, “Do you have a bank account, Mr. Carson?”

“Indeed I do, Mr. Barrow,” he replies. “You should consider getting one yourself. Keep your money safe and secure.”

_What are you spending money on?_

Thomas grimaces at Starling’s voice in his head.

Carson puts a hand on his shoulder. “Now is the time to start saving for retirement. I know with that cheque in your hands, you may feel tempted to go out and buy something extravagant, but you must consider your future.”

“I understand, sir.” Thomas says, nodding.

Except, he doesn’t understand. Or, he does, but he doesn’t like it. Is he to work and work and work until he can’t work anymore, and then live off the money he earned working until he dies?

“Speaking of the future,” says Carson as he walks around the desk and pulls up a chair. “There is a certain matter we must discuss.”

Thomas blinks, then sticks his cheque into his own pocket next to his lighter before sitting up and folding his hands on the desk. “Yes, sir?”

“It is a, ah, delicate matter,” says Carson as he lowers himself into his chair, “but it is vital that you be completely honest with me.”

Tilting his head to the side in confusion, Thomas frowns. “Yes, sir, of course. What is it?”

Carson works his jaw, staring a hole into the center of the desk as he tries to think of what to say. He closes his eyes and swallows.

“It has been almost six years since your _indiscretion_ with Mr. Kent.”

Chills rip through Thomas’s limbs and ice his entire body. He takes his folded hands off from the desk and into his lap, where they curl into fists. Carson opens his eyes, as if expecting Thomas to say something, but he remains silent.

Carson continues. “And, as far as I’m aware, there have been no other indiscretions of that nature. However, there is an unfortunate _rumor_ regarding--”

“I turned him down.” Thomas says.

Carson’s mouth falls open. “I beg your pardon?”

“This is about Mr. Starling, isn’t it?” Thomas asks. Carson closes his mouth and nods. “Nothing happened. Nothing is going to happen. As I said, I turned him down.”

“I see.” Carson says, a deep frown on his face. “So, he did… offer?”

“Yes.”

Carson nods again. “And you’re certain he will not pursue the issue further?”

“ _Yes_ ,” says Thomas. “I told him that, as a butler, there was no room in my life for such things, and he said that he wouldn’t push it.”

“Good.” Carson says with a sigh of relief. “Is Mr. Talbot aware of Mr. Starling’s proclivities?”

“He is, as is Mr. Branson and Lady Mary.”

Carson balks at him. “ _And_ Lady Mary? How did _she_ find out?”

“I assume her husband told her.”

Running his hand over his chin, Carson grumbles. “And she doesn’t object to her husband spending so much time with a-- with a--”

“Homosexual?” Thomas offers. He leans forward in mock-concern. “Mr. Carson, are you implying that Mr. Talbot could be _unfaithful_?”

True, Thomas believes it to be a possibility. Plenty of married men are adulterers, and plenty of homosexual men are married. However, watching Carson wring his hands at the _mere idea_ that a man of the aristocracy, a man of _Downton,_ could be anything but an utter saint is one of the best things Thomas has seen in years.

Carson sputters as he tries to come up with a response. “That wasn’t-- I mean, if he--” He stops, sighs, then looks Thomas in the eye. “What do _you_ think?”

“I think Mr. Talbot loves and honors his wife, as any good man should.” Thomas says.

“Of course,” says Carson, resigned. He sags in his chair. “He’s coming over tomorrow.”

Thomas blinks. “What? Who?”

“Mr. Starling!” Carson sits up again. “He’s coming over to install new telephones.”

“Why wasn’t I told about this?” Thomas asks.

“It was discussed while _you_ were eating fish and chips in _York_ ,” Carson growls, “with the foul degenerate _himself_.”

Thomas stiffens, the fists in his lap curling so tight that his fingernails dig into his palms.

“You and I have had this discussion before, Mr. Carson.” Thomas says, using every fiber of his strength to keep his voice even. “We are not foul.”

“Well, _you’re_ not obviously, but--”

“Thank you, for finally conceding that,” says Thomas, “but _he_ is not foul either. Is he a _degenerate_? Perhaps. I don’t know him well enough to say for sure, and neither do you. Regardless, you will not call him foul.”

Carson narrows his eyes. “You were not so defensive of the man before. In fact, you described his faults rather _enthusiastically_.”

“I know I did.” Thomas says. He pushes his chair back and stands. “I stand by what I said then. He swears like a sailor and has little respect for his superiors. Otherwise? He no fouler than you are.”

Thomas leaves. He does not storm off, like he did the night he returned from York. Instead, he strides calmly through the Servants Hall and out the back door.

He leans against the wall, smoking a cigarette. While he doesn’t think he’ll be sacked, the rapport he and Carson had built up since he accepted this job has certainly been knocked down, and will take even more time to build back up. Who the hell told Carson about the fish and chips, anyway?

Bates, probably. Or Andy, letting it slip while he shared the rest of the Chocolate Apple with Daisy.

A few years ago, he would’ve tracked down whoever it was and made them pay. Now, it just feels like a waste of time. People say things, maliciously or not. They go about their lives with little concern for how they affect others. Punishing them for it just gives them reason to strike back.

 

Sunday is supposed to be one of Carson’s days off, but today he arrives at Downton with the desire to “Observe the installation of the new telephones,” which Thomas is certain means “Make sure Mr. Barrow does not fall victim to Mr. Starling’s seductions, or vice versa. They do not discuss the previous day’s argument, but instead pretend that all is as it was before, even though Thomas can feel Carson’s gaze boring into the back of his head whenever he turns around.

The main issue of the day is that just about _everyone_ wants time off for Valentine’s Day. Anna, Bates, and Baxter will just be going to the movies after dinner with Mosley as some kind of double date and promise to be back before eleven. Carson approves, as that does not interfere with any of the family’s plans.

Andy wishing to take Daisy out to dinner in Thirsk, however, proves a problem.

“I already made my reservation for 7:30,” says Andy, staring down at his shoes as he stands in the Butler’s office.

Carson gives him a hard look from his seat at the desk, his frown deepening the creases in his face. “You should not have made that reservation without asking _our_ permission first. The family has dinner at 8 o’clock, and we will need you to help serve it.”

Thomas, who stands at Carson’s side, glances at him, surprised at “ _our_ permission.” He clears his throat and looks back at Andy. “What does Mrs. Patmore say about this?”

“She told Daisy it was alright, since only Lord and Lady Grantham will be dining then.” Andy says.

Carson grumbles. “ _Only_ Lord and Lady Grantham?”

“Lady Mary and Mr. Talbot will be having dinner in York,” says Thomas.

“What about Mr. Branson?” asks Carson, looking back and forth between Thomas and Andy.

Andy shrugs. Thomas sighs.

“I’ll see what Patmore knows.” Thomas steps around the desk and brushes past Andy.

In the kitchen Mrs. Patmore and Daisy have already started on the family’s lunch. Daisy kneads a ball of bread dough about the size of her head, flour covering her arms and sprinkling across her cheeks. She looks up at him from her work, her big eyes sparkling with excitement.

“So, do we get the night off?” she asks.

“Jury’s still out, I’m afraid.” Thomas says. “Mrs. Patmore?”

The old woman turns to face him, holding a pot in one hand and stirring its contents with a whisk with the other. “What can I do for you, Thomas?”

 _That’s Mr. Barrow to you_ , he thinks, but he’s been trying to cut back on correcting people about it, especially those who have known him since he was a hall boy.

“Andy says you told him only Lord and Lady Grantham will be having dinner at Downton on Valentine’s Day. What about Branson?”

Mrs. Patmore gives him a big smile. “Oh, he’s going dancing with Mr. Starling!”

“What?” Something in his stomach twists, but Thomas will not call it _jealousy_. “Why?”

“The dance hall in York is havin’ some kinda function for single people that night.” Daisy says.

Mrs. Patmore nods. “It’s time for our Branson to start socializing with women again, and Mr. Starling volunteered to help him out. He told me all about it when I ran into him at the market the other day.”

“Did he.” Thomas flexes his jaw and considers this. He turns around and heads back to the office.

He opens the door to find Carson standing next to Andy, smiling and clapping him on the shoulder. Andy smiles as well, but his cheeks are red with embarrassment.

“What’s this?” Thomas asks.

Carson ignores him, his eyes still on Andy. “Tell Daisy you have the night off.”

“Thank you, sir,” says Andy, breathless.

“And _good luck_.” Carson says. He gives Andy’s shoulder and affectionate shake before shuffling him out of the office.

“What was that about?” Thomas asks.

Carson smiles, but shakes his head. “Young love.”

Thomas enters the office fully and closes the door behind him. “Wait, is Andy going to--”

“I think it’s best that we keep this to ourselves.” Carson says. “We don’t want to risk spoiling the surprise for Daisy.”

Plopping himself down in his chair, Thomas bites his lip. He’s happy for them, really, but it seems like everyone in this bloody house is coupling up, and all it does for Thomas is emphasize how alone he is. Even butlers can get married now, but not him. He rubs his hands over his brow to alleviate the oncoming headache. Maybe he should start thinking of Downton Abbey as his wife.

Thomas chuckles to himself at the thought of marrying at all, even to a house.

 

After the family’s lunch, Branson takes Lord Grantham to Thirsk to take a look at the girl’s school there. It’s excellent timing, because as soon as they pull out of the driveway, Thomas hears the familiar pop and roar of a motorbike. The servants are still in the middle of their own lunch, so Thomas downs the rest of his tea and goes to open the door for Starling before he can ring the bell and disturb everyone else.

He opens the back door to find Starling leaning his bike against the garage and balancing his helmet on the handlebars. He’s back in the leather jacket and work boots today, which Thomas must admit suit him better than well, a suit. Attached to the motorbike is a sidecar which Thomas is sure wasn’t there before. In it are three cardboard boxes and a wicker basket covered with a purple cloth.

Thomas holds his hands behind his back as he approaches. “Do you need any help?”

“Uh, yeah, can you get two of these boxes?” Starling says as he pulls out the wicker basket. “Shit, I hope none of them fell out.”

Taking hold of two boxes while Starling tucks the third under his arm, they make their way toward the back door.

“Lovely to see you again, Mr. Barrow.” Starling says, flashing him a smile.

Thomas keeps his expression neutral. “Thank you for coming to install the phones, Mr. Starling.”

Starling laughs as Thomas opens the door. “For the last time, don’t call me _mister_.”

“If you insist.” Thomas says. Starling winks at him as he passes, then holds up his wicker basket over his head as he struts his way down to hall. Thomas rolls his eyes and follows.

“Guess who made berliners!” says Starling, planting the basket on the end of the table in the Servants Hall.

He pulls off the purple cloth to reveal a large batch of round pastries covered in cinnamon and powdered sugar, with a little burst of red on the side, indicating some sort of filling. Each face around the table lights up at the sight and smell of them, except for Carson, who glowers at the pastries as if they were unpolished silver.

Mrs. Hughes sits up to get a better look. “What is a _berliner_ , exactly?”  

“Looks like jam doughnuts,” says Andy, reaching into the basket and picking one out.

“They are jam doughnuts,” says Starling, hopping up onto a table corner, unaware of the way Carson scowls at this. “But better. These _Berliner Pfannkuchen_ are an old family recipe, so you’d better like them, or Oma Starling will haunt you until you develop better taste.”

The servants pass the basket around, thanking Starling at each turn. Carson does not take one, saying he does not care for sweets.

Thomas touches Starling’s shoulder and holds up the two boxes. “Where would like me to put these?”

“What?” Starling says. He blinks at the boxes, then slips from his perch on the table, and holds up his own box. “Oh, uh, one is for your office, one’s for the estate manager’s, and one is for the drawing room. The drawing room one’s the fancy one.”

“Well, the butler’s office is right over here, so why don’t you get started in there?” says Thomas.

Starling nods, and follows him out of the Servant’s Hall. Once in the office, they set their boxes on the desk. Starling opens one and pulls out a simple telephone with a black, cast iron base and handset. He places it next to the candlestick-type telephone currently installed, then crouches down on the floor and gets to work.

Carson appears in the office doorway. “I would like to… observe this, ah, installation.”

Starling smiles up at him. “Sure! Are you familiar with handsets?”

“I’m afraid not.” Carson says. He gestures to the old phone. “This is the only telephone I have ever used.”

“Then you’re in for a treat, because the new ones I’ve got are about twenty thousand leagues ahead of it.”

Carson frowns and steps up behind Starling, who continues to babble about receivers, transmitters, and the like. With every word he doesn’t understand, Carson’s frown deepens, but Starling doesn’t seem to notice.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” says Thomas, who exits the office and returns to his lunch.

 

Back at the table, Anna pushes the wicker basket towards him. “We saved some for you.”

Thomas eyes the leftover pastries and purses his lips. A soft, sweet smell wafts over him, making his mouth water. He picks one up and bites into it. The berliner _is_ better than a jam doughnut, but Thomas cannot think of the words to explain how. Instead, he just closes his eyes and savors the taste.

“Mr. Starling certainly knows the way to a person’s heart is through his stomach.” Mrs. Patmore says as she and Daisy clear the table.

Swallowing, Thomas gets up from the table and leaves without another word. He takes his berliner, however, and finishes it as he makes his way upstairs.

 

The telephone that Starling installs in the drawing room is ivory white with brass flourishes. It also has a handset, which Starling demonstrates how to use to Lady Grantham as Thomas serves her tea.

“It’s great for if you ever need to step away from the phone while you’re talking to someone,” Starling says, holding the handset up to his cheek, “because the cord’s long enough that you don’t have carry the whole thing with you. I mean, it’s not _that_ long, but you got some elbow room, which is always good.”

The handset is attached to the cradle with a 4-foot long, spiral cord that dangles off the side of stand next to the sofa, nearly reaching the floor. While the rest of the machine suits the room, Thomas can’t help but find that particular cord rather ugly.

“And, if you ever need to use both your hands, you can do this!” Starling tucks the handset between his ear and his shoulder, then cranes his neck to the side to keep it there. He then holds up his empty hands, and wiggles his fingers. “Tada!”

Lady Grantham laughs. “That’s certainly useful.”

“If a bit undignified.” Thomas says as he stirs in Lady Grantham’s milk and sugar.

“Well, sometimes we must sacrifice a bit of dignity to get things done.” Starling smiles at him and places the handset back onto the cradle.

“You’re quite right,” says Lady Grantham. “Mr. Starling, would you care to have tea with me? Tom and Henry are always going on about you.”

“Only interesting things, I hope.” Starling says as he takes a seat in an armchair next to her Ladyship. “I don’t care if they say good or bad things about me, as long as they’re interesting. I’d _love_ to have tea with you.”

She laughs again and turns to Thomas. “Barrow, could you get us another cup?”

“Of course, milady.” Thomas says.

He does not want to leave Starling alone with Lady Grantham, lest he do or say something offensive. But so far, her Ladyship has been amused by his antics. Besides, she is a kind and forgiving person, and Thomas suspects she enjoys talking to a fellow American who isn’t also a relative. Thomas returns with two more cups, just in case.

When he arrives back at the drawing room, Lady Grantham asks Starling about his parents.

“My mother was an opera singer at the Met,” he says.

“Oh, how lovely,” says Lady Grantham. “Have I heard of her?”

Starling shakes his head. “Probably not. She was a contralto, and there is a _severe_ soprano bias in classical music. She mostly played old ladies and witches, or stayed in the ensemble to round out the harmonies, but she was happy there, which is what was really important.”

“Of course.” Lady Grantham says with a soft smile. “And your father?”

“He is _not_ important.” Starling says.

Lady Grantham’s eyebrows rise as she sips her tea. “I see.”

Thomas hands Starling his tea and saucer, who looks up and him and mouths _thank you_ before going on to talk about his sister as if the subject of his father never came up.

“Silvia, my twin, she sings just as well as our mother did, but she mostly sticks to jazz. It’s much more appreciative of women with a lower register.”

“And are you musical as well?” Lady Grantham asks.

“I play piano,” says Starling. “And I used to tap-dance, but…” He taps the heel of his left leg onto the floor.

“Oh, I am so _sorry_.” Lady Grantham says, reaching out to touch his arm.

“Don’t worry about that, ma’am.” Starling flashes a grin. “I can still dance, so long as it doesn’t require any complicated footwork.”

Thomas clears his throat. “Is there anything else I can do for you, milady?”

“No, Barrow, I think we’re alright for now,” she says.

Thomas nods. Starling catches his eye as he turns away and smiles at him. Thomas does not smile back. As he heads from the drawing room to the main hall, Lady Mary comes in with Master George and Miss Sybbie at her side.

“George, Sybbie, I’d like you to meet Mr. Starling.” Mary says. “He works at the motor shop with Daddy and Uncle Tom.”

“Hello!” the children say in unison.

Watching out of the corner of his eye, Thomas remains in the hall, as he must at this time of day to welcome any visitors to the house. Other than Starling, none are expected, but he will remain here for at least half an hour, or until someone asks for his help elsewhere.

The sight of two children actually seem to frighten Starling, who presses his body into the corner of the armchair as if to put as much space between the children and himself. He even holds a hand up to push his wild hair out of his eyes so than nothing can obstruct his view.

If Lady Mary notices this, she doesn’t say anything, Instead, she introduces the children.

“Seth,” she says, “this is my son, George, and this is my niece, Sybil, though we call her Sybbie.”

Thomas bites the inside of his cheek, and remembering how Starling once told him that Thomas could call him _Seth_ if he liked. He supposed Starling gave Lady Mary the same offer, but unlike Thomas, she accepted.

“Oh, uh, hello.” Starling says. He flashes them a nervous smile.

“Is it true you’ve only got one leg?” Sybbie asks, _because of course she would_.

“Sybbie!” Lady Grantham says. “That’s a _private_ matter.”

“Looks like two legs to me,” says George, disappointed.

“It’s alright,” says Starling. He takes a deep breath and relaxes a bit before he bends over in his seat and rolls up his left trouser leg, revealing the wooden appendage beneath. “See? This one’s a fake.”

George and Sybbie let go of Mary’s hands and scramble on their knees to examine the prosthetic, making “oohs” and “aahs” in their excitement.

Starling laughs. “I find it’s easier to just tell kids about it so they don’t get confused or frightened later.”

At that point, even Lady Grantham leans in to get a closer look. “Did the army provide it for you?”

“Not this one, no.” Starling says. “They did give me one at first, but didn’t quite fit right and I had to use a cane. I couldn’t stand it after a while -- pun _mostly_ unintended.”

Thomas holds back a smile as he listens.

“So first, I started talking to prosthetists and other amputees, and then I started tinkering, and eventually I was able to make the perfect leg for me.”

George knocks on the wooden shaft. “Can you feel anything?”

“Not really, not like I feel things in my other leg,” Starling explains. “But I can usually tell when something’s wrong, like a loose screw.”

He reaches further down and grabs the tip of his toe, moving it back and forth. “So far so good.”

Mary crouches down next to the children. “The foot moves?”

“Yep,” says Starling. “It’s got a spring in there. Makes for a more natural step.”

With that, he unrolls this trouser leg, covering the prosthetic, and sits back up with a smile.

“Mummy,” says George as pushes himself up to his feel. “Do you think Mr. Starling could make a new leg for Mr. Bates?”

“Darling, Mr. Bates doesn’t need a new leg.” Mary says. She remains on her knees to adjust George’s little sailor suit. “He gets along perfectly fine with his cane. Now, I believe it’s time to get you two back to Nanny.”

Sybbie stands up next to George. “Can we get piggyback rides from Mr. Barrow first?”

“ _Piggyback rides_?” Starling’s face lights up, and he shifts in his chair to look at Thomas standing in the hall. “From _Mr. Barrow_?”

Thomas takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He’d be perfectly happy to play with the children, but for some reason can’t place, he’d rather Starling not know about it.

“Yes!” George says. “He gives the best ones.”

Lady Grantham smiles. “He spoils them.”

“Does he?” Starling asks. “I never thought he’d be good with kids. Looks too uptight, to me.”

“Well,” says Lady Mary as she stands. “You’re still getting to know each other, aren’t you?”

Starling sits back in his seat and takes his teacup from the table. “I suppose we are.”

Sybbie runs out of the drawing room, right up to Thomas, and reaches up to him. “Will you come play with us, Mr. Barrow? Please?”

“How about I read you a story at bedtime?” Thomas says, taking her little hand.

Sybbie pouts. “Do you promise?”

“Yes, I promise.” Thomas says with a smile. He smiles at George and Lady Mary as they come to collect Sybbie on their way back to Nanny.

“Goodbye, Mr. Starling!” says George, waving back to the drawing room.

Sybbie joins in on the waving. “Goodbye!”

“Bye, George! Bye, Sybbie!” Starling says.

He catches Thomas’s eye and winks. Thomas looks away and tells himself that the warm feeling in his chest is just from seeing the children.

“Thank you for the tea, Lady Grantham.” Starling says as he sets his teacup and saucer back on the table. “But I have one more telephone to install. Can you direct me to the estate manager’s office?”

“You’re very welcome.” Lady Grantham says. “And Barrow can show you. Mr. Barrow?”

Thomas swallows and steps back into the drawing room. “Yes, milady?”

“Please take Mr. Starling to the office. I can call a maid to clear this up,” she says, gesturing to the empty teacups.

“Of course, ma’am.” Thomas nods to her, then turns to Starling, who gathers his tools and the remaining telephone box. “If you’ll follow me, sir.”

Thomas exits the drawing room with Starling right behind him. They walk in silence through the main hall until they turn a corner into a secluded corridor.

“You have an accent.” Starling says.

“Yes,” says Thomas, “as do you. I have a British accent and you have an American one.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got a specific British accent.” Starling cocks his head to the side. “You hide it when you work, but it comes out every once in a while. Where are you from, originally?”

Thomas sighs. “Manchester. I came to Downton when I was fifteen.”

“Did you have to teach yourself to sound posh to get a job here?”

“It wasn’t a requirement,” says Thomas, “but it did help.”

Starling’s pace slows as he examines the paintings on the walls. “Does being good with kids help too?”

“I was here long before the children were born.” Thomas says. He looks behind him to find that Starling has stopped in front of one of the paintings. Stepping up behind him, he examines the piece as well.

It’s an old one that Thomas has passed an uncountable amount of times over the years, but never really looked at. Five horses gallop across a stream, their manes flying in the wind and hooves kicking up water.

“I suppose you would consider this _decoration_ instead of art.” Thomas says.

Starling glances at him and shrugs. “It can be both. Depends on the intent of the artist. Are you familiar with them?”

“Who?”

“The person who painted this.”

Thomas shakes his head. “Probably no one too famous. They keep the expensive art in the main hall or the drawing rooms.”

“Places where they can show it off.” He flashes Thomas a crooked smile. “Yeah, I saw that big Joshua Reynolds piece they have over the stairs. Impressive.”

“Wouldn’t expect a mechanic to know much about art,” says Thomas, arching his brow.

Starling reaches out and traces his finger along the intricate carvings in the frame. “I worked for a curator before the war. He loved baroque portraits and shit.”

“And you don’t?”

“They’re alright,” he says. “I can recognize a masterpiece of its time even if it’s not my taste. I prefer some stylistic abstraction when it comes to portraits. You ever see Klimt’s work?”

Thomas shakes his head “I don’t often go to art galleries.”

“Well, most of his good stuff, like the _really_ good stuff, is privately owned, so you gotta talk your way into some rich Viennese parties to see them.”

“And did you?” Thomas asks. “Talk your way in?”

Starling leans in and whispers, “Talked my way into here, didn’t I?”

His words send tingles across Thomas’s neck and down his spine. He keeps his eyes on the painting, refusing to give in to the urge to look him in the eye and whisper something, himself. What would he even say? _What else can you talk your way into?_

Thomas swallows, then turns away from Starling and the stupid horse painting. “This way. I assume you want to install that telephone before the Earl gets back.”

“Shit, you are correct.” Starling mutters as he catches up to Thomas. “I mean, I figure I’m gonna run into him eventually, but I’m holding it off as long as I can.”

“Yes, that’s probably for the best.” Thomas stops in front of the office door and opens it. “Everyone else might find you amusing, but I doubt the Earl will feel the same way.”

Starling follows him into the office and sets his box on the desk. “Old men never like me. Old ladies? I’m a fucking delight. But to old men, especially _rich_ old men, I represent all that is wrong with the world.”

“Lord Grantham isn’t _that_ old.” Thomas says, although it sounds false the moment it comes out.

Sitting down at the desk, Starling continues, “Which is funny, because _they_ represent the same thing to _me_.”

“Is that so?” Thomas crosses his arms and rests his hip against the desk.

“Uh-huh.” Pulling the last telephone out of its box, Starling looks up at him. “Outside of, I don’t know, natural disasters, rich men are at the core of all the world’s problems.”

“And yet you spend most of your time with Talbot and Branson,” says Thomas.

“They don’t count, not like the Earl or Rockefeller count.” Starling slips out of his chair and onto the floor, where he starts to tug on the cords connecting the old phone to the wall. “They just married up.”

“Well, you’re not wrong about that.” Thomas says. “Shall I leave you to your work?”

Starling looks up and smiles at him from the floor. “If you want to, sure, but I wouldn’t mind if you stayed.”

Thomas doesn’t let himself even consider it. He unfolds his arms and leaves the office without another word. _Manage it, manage it_ , he thinks as his heart ties itself in knots. He has work to do. The house needs him. He cannot waste time talking to Starling about art and the economic responsibility of the upper classes and regional accents, things he can’t really talk to anyone else about either.

He supposes he could discuss regional accents with the other servants, but Thomas suspects it wouldn’t be an interesting conversation.

Before Thomas even realizes it, he’s down in the kitchen with Daisy and Mrs. Patmore.

He clears his throat to get their attention. “May I have a cup of tea, please?”

“Coming right up, Mr. Barrow,” says Daisy, picking up the kettle.

Mrs. Patmore frowns at him. “You alright, Thomas? You look white as a sheet!”

“I assure you, Mrs. Patmore that I am--”

_Lonely_

“--fine, perfectly fine.”

Thomas drinks his tea in his office, eyeing the new telephone as if it will ring, and when he picks it up, Starling will be at the other end, asking for more of his time, more of his thoughts and opinions in exchange for his own.

Sinking deeper into his chair, Thomas rests his head in his hands. They can’t be friends. He can’t believe that just last week, he thought they could be friends. _Nothing even happened_ , and Thomas still feels _guilty_ , like he betrayed the house in some way.

He wants to know more about Starling, about his taste in art and his time in the war, how he snuck into parties in Vienna just to look at some paintings, how he learned to tap-dance and if he misses it. He wants to hear the stories behind his scars, and tell him the stories behind his own. He wants to know if he has a gaping void in this soul, just like Thomas does.

Does it eat at him, too?

Does it numb him to the bones, or ache in every muscle?

Is he happy? Is he complete? Is he satisfied?

Thomas knows he should be all three of those things. He finally has what he wanted, the top rung on the ladder. He was happy when he accepted the job. The whole month of January, Thomas was the respected and fulfilled man he wanted to be. Now, not even halfway through February, the curtain has fallen, and he’s just as miserable as ever.

 _Stop_.

Sipping his tea, Thomas reminds himself why he cannot break down again. Mr. Carson and the Crawleys have bestowed upon him the great responsibility of running Downton Abbey, and he cannot let them think that he isn’t ready for it, or worse, that he isn’t _worthy_ of it.

He must keep going, damn the obstacles ahead.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys once again for all your support. This chapter is a doozy so PREPARE YOURSELF. I hope you like it!
> 
> PS. This chapter is explicit. Rating has been changed accordingly.

The next few days blur together like a dream. Thomas goes about his duties without comment, complaint, or much awareness. When he answers questions in his meetings with Carson and Lord Grantham, it’s as if he is a ventriloquist’s puppet. His mouth moves, but the voice is not his own. The words come from somewhere else. Thankfully, the people around him buy into the illusion, or at least have the tact not to ask him about it. He doesn’t even know what he would say if they did.

Only during his cigarette breaks does he feel truly awake, fully present in the moment instead of lost in some fog. He tastes the smoke on his tongue, and holds in each drag until his lungs burn. He leans back and lets the stone wall support him while his legs ache. He never realized how much  _ walking  _ a butler does, especially in a big house like Downton. The place covers about 30,000 square feet, and Thomas must circle it multiple times a day.

Carson keeps a bottle of aspirin in his office, although he says only to use it if he truly can’t stand from the soreness. Thomas supposes his legs will get used to it in time, but right now, he appreciates the dull ache in his thighs. They remind him that he’s alive.

He stands just to the side of the open door to the boot room, where Bates and Andy polish shoes.

“Mr. Bates?” says Andy. “Could I have some advice?”

Thomas perks up, and takes another drag from his cigarette. Is it eavesdropping if the people you listen to know you can hear them?  _ Do  _ Bates and Andy know he can hear them? Do they even know he’s there?

“Of course, Andy.” Bates says. “What is this about?”

“Well, I just…” Andy grumbles for a bit before he finally spits it out. “How did you propose to Anna?”

Even though Thomas rolls his eyes at this, part of him is curious. He never did get the full details of their romantic saga.

“My proposal to Anna wasn’t any great romantic gesture, really,” says Bates. “So many things kept us apart for so long, that the moment I saw a chance for us to be together, I just asked. I didn’t even have a ring.”

“No  _ ring _ ?” Andy asks. “I couldn’t imagine proposing without a ring. I’ve been saving and saving for ages.”

Bates laughs. “The ring isn’t really the important part, Andy. It’s how you feel about each other. I had a ring for my first marriage, but we didn’t love each other, not like Anna and I love each other. Vera and I made each other  _ miserable _ .”

Dropping the butt of his cigarette and crushing it underfoot, Thomas wonders how much Andy knows about how things ended for Mrs. Vera Bates.

“But, why’d you marry her if you didn’t love her?” Andy asks.

There’s a pause, then Bates sighs. “Maybe I did, in the beginning, or at least I thought I did. We got married because we grew up together, so everyone expected us to. But we wanted very different things out of life, so every day was a struggle. Anna and I, we’re after the same goals, have the same values. We’re  _ partners  _ in life. We’re a  _ team _ . Do you understand, Andy?”

“I think I do.” Andy replies. “Still, I think Daisy would appreciate an engagement ring all the same. She didn’t get one last time, just a wedding band.”

Thomas lights up another cigarette. He hasn’t thought about that sham wedding in years. It was rather pretty, for what it was, the whole room covered in flowers from the garden. He can’t imagine a lovelier deathbed. Even though it must’ve been the most agonizing thing in the world, Daisy managed to keep it together. Thomas doubts he would’ve been able to, if he were in her position.

“Has Daisy talked with you much about William?” Bates asks.

“Yes,” says Andy. “Terribly sad story. I just want ours to be a happy one, and I’ll do everything I can to make it so.”

Thomas smiles at that, and blows out a plume of smoke as he looks up into the clear blue sky.

“So, have you got the ring, then?”

“Uh-huh, I got it in York on my last half-day. I’ve been carryin’ it with me wherever I go.” Andy says. “I’m terrified that I’ll forget where I put it down!”

After some rustling, which Thomas assumes is Andy taking the ring from his pocket, Bates cries out in surprise. “Oh! That’s  _ beautiful _ , Andy. Is it-- is it an opal?”

“I was gonna get a diamond, but when I went to the shop, Mr. Starling was there, and he talked me into getting it. He said ‘Opals got fire in them, just like Daisy does.’”

Thomas just barely manages to stop himself from choking on smoke. What the hell was  _ Starling  _ doing in a jewelry store? Who was  _ he  _ to give advice on  _ engagement rings _ ?

“Interesting fellow, that Mr. Starling.” Bates says. Thomas can hear the smile in his voice, and has to force himself to stay still instead of marching in there wiping it off with his fist.

“I dunno why Mr. Barrow says he isn’t nice,” says Andy. “A bit odd, maybe, but wonderfully kind.”

“Mr. Barrow is…” Bates pauses, then sighs again. “He’s a complicated person.”

Thomas walks away before he can hear more.

 

Because Valentine’s falls on a Sunday this year, everyone’s cards arrive on Saturday. Thomas accepts the thick stack of envelopes from the postman with a forced smile. He used to hate this holiday, or at the very least he hated being left out of it. He hasn’t received a card since he was a child, long before he came to Downton. It stung the first few years, even though he had no reason to expect one. After a while, he was able to dismiss the whole affair as sentimental nonsense, and his hatred deflated into indifference.

He passes the envelopes out at lunch with the same forced smile. There’s one for literally every person at the table, including Mrs. Patmore. She blushes and laughs when he hands it to her, breathless and embarrassed with excitement. Thomas supposes he is happy for her.

When he looks down at the last envelope, it takes a moment to register the name on the address.

_ Mr. Barrow _

In purple ink.

Thomas stuffs it into his jacket pocket without further examination. If anyone sees him do it, they mercifully say nothing. He spends the entire meal with his nerves on fire, his heartbeat rushing in his ears, and a terrible, terrible fluttering in his stomach. 

In an effort to appear normal and unaffected, Thomas eats every item on his plate, even though he can’t quite taste it.

“Look at you, scarfing down every bite!” says Mrs. Patmore. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat so quickly.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” says Thomas as he pats his mouth with a napkin. “I’ve always loved your food.”

“Ha! Don’t try to flatter me now, Thomas!” she says. “Not after fifteen years of sayin’ nothing of the sort.”

Thomas puts on his most innocent expression, carefully crafted over a lifetime of guilt. “Haven’t I? Well, I suppose I thought it went without saying.”

Mrs. Patmore scoffs, but says no more. His plate clean, Thomas dumps it in the sink and heads straight for his bedroom.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” someone asks. Baxter, maybe. Or Anna. He doesn’t stick around to find out or answer.

When he closes the door behind him, he lets out a huge breath. His lungs seem to empty in their entirety, and spots appear before his eyes. A wave of dizziness comes over him, and he slides down to the floor. He takes a moment to get ahold of himself, then takes the envelope out of his pocket.

As he stares down at it, Thomas considers that it might not be a card. Valentine’s is a Christian holiday, and Mr. Starling is not Christian. Or at least Thomas thinks he isn’t. He doesn’t know for sure. He bends the envelope in his hands, testing its stiffness. It does not fold like plain paper.

It’s definitely a card.

Thomas purses his lips and wonders if he should be angry. Starling said he wouldn’t push it after he was rejected, but doesn’t this count as pushing it?

Somehow, he both hates and is proud of the fact that he knows it’s from Starling without opening it. The envelope doesn’t even have a return address. He just recognizes the handwriting from Talbot’s postcard over a month ago, and knows that Starling bought ink at the Amethyst, which couldn’t be anything but purple.

He tears open the envelope and pulls out the card.

On the outside is an illustration of a clock tower at three o’clock, with a pigeon perched on each hand, one just under the twelve, and the other next to the three. Above the clock tower reads,  _ How long will I wait for thee? _

He opens it, and now the clock is at 3:15. The two hands point to the same number, and the two pigeons huddle together on their perch. Above it says,  _ As long as it takes! _

Inside the card is more of Starling’s purple ink. The opposite side he wrote,  _ Heard you like clocks,  _ along with his signature star, while next to the clock tower is  _ Fifteen minutes! Such commitment! _

Thomas laughs, a high-pitched wheeze like air slipping out of a balloon.

So this is what getting a Valentine feels like: panic and joy spinning together in his heart and mind until he’s too dizzy to stand. He sets the card aside and closes his eyes, resting his head back against the door. Thomas imagines Starling at some shop, maybe with Branson or Talbot, perusing a display of cards until this one catches his eye. He can hear his laugh in his head when he pictures Starling opening the card and seeing how the illustration negates the sentiment.

It’s a stupid card for a stupid holiday, and Thomas is utterly enchanted.

Once the dizziness has passed, Thomas gets up and hides the card in his bedside drawer, next to his spare glove. He wonders if he should run out and get a card for Starling, but there’s no time. Instead, he’ll just thank him in person when he comes to take Branson to the York Dance Hall.

Unfortunately, those plans are dashed when he learns at the family’s dinner that instead of coming here to take Branson to York, Branson will be meeting Starling in York on his own.

Thomas chastises himself as he pours Lord Grantham’s wine. Of  _ course  _ they’re meeting in York, how could he be so stupid? It doesn’t make any sense that Starling would leave York, come to Downton, only to turn back around. Lord Grantham’s glass full, Thomas moves on to Lady Grantham. He supposes he imagined Starling and Branson’s outing somewhat like a  _ date _ , with Starling as the suitor and Branson as…

Thomas swallows his laugh as best he can. Branson being the object of Starling’s affections is too ridiculous to think about, especially when he’s in the middle of dinner service.

“It’s nice of him to take you out, though.” Lady Cora says as she indicates to Thomas that her glass is full. “I’m glad to hear you too are getting along better.”

“Well,” says Branson, patting his mouth with his napkin, “we’ve finally found something to talk about.”

Talbot narrows his eyes at him. “Oh? And what is that?”

Branson hesitates, drumming his fingers against the table. “Just, ah, just politics and the like.”

“ _ Politics _ ?” Lord Grantham says. “Be careful, Tom. Judging from what I’ve heard about this Mr. Starling, I can’t imagine what his political views might be.”

Thomas and Andy share a look as Thomas sets the wine bottle down and returns to stand next to him. 

“He has some interesting ideas, is all.” Branson says with a shrug.

“Such as?” Mary asks, but Talbot starts talking before Branson can answer.

“For the sake of our friendship,” says Talbot, “there are two things Starling and I never discuss: politics and religion.”

Branson smiles. “He has some interesting ideas when it comes to religion as well.”

“ _ How _ ?” Talbot asks, setting down his knife and fork. “It’s not as if he’s  _ observant _ . He doesn’t keep Kosher, doesn’t go to Temple--”

“It’s just interesting, alright?” Branson says. “He’s not a devout Jew by any means, but it’s still interesting to hear an outsider’s perspective.”

_ Suspicion confirmed _ , Thomas notes to himself.

“I fully agree, Tom.” Mary says.

“For the sake of our dinner, perhaps we should put these topics to bed as well?” Lady Grantham asks before sipping her wine.

“Yes, yes, let’s talk about something else.” Lord Grantham says.

The discussion turns to baby names. Talbot has his heart set out on Charles for a boy, to honor his old racing friend and rival Charlie Rogers. Everyone at the table seems to like this, and Thomas suspects that Mary would like to honor Carson as well. For a girl, several names are brought up: Isadora, Violet, Rosamund, and, of course Charlotte, just in case.

If Thomas had any say in the matter, he’d pick Violet. He’s rather fond of the Dowager Countess, after all.

 

On Sunday, Thomas stays in his office taking notes for the ledger while everyone else goes to Church. He’s lucky that Lord Grantham isn’t the kind of employer that requires all of his servants to attend Sunday services. Thomas only steps into churches for weddings, and he likes it that way. It’s not that he’s a complete non-believer-- he did his fair share of praying during the war-- he just doesn’t care for sitting through hour-long sermons when he has work to do, particularly if said sermons are of the fire-and-brimstone kind.

When he first started out as butler, Carson did everything short of directly ordering Thomas to attend Church, saying that it reflected poorly on the family to have an irreligious butler. Thomas avoided the subject as best he could until finally he asked Mrs. Hughes to make Carson understand that 1, it is Thomas’s right to choose whether or not to attend any religious services, and 2, no one but the most old-fashioned gossips actually notice or care if a family’s butler goes to Church.

Besides, he likes having his Sunday mornings to himself. It’s a nice time to reflect on the week past, and figure out what needs to be done in the week ahead. Thomas makes sure not to waste it, lest Carson get the impression that Thomas spends his Sundays in sinful idleness. 

The rest of the day goes by quickly and quietly. After lunch, those going out confirm with him in the office when they’ll be coming back, all in time for their nightly duties. When Andy comes in, Thomas stops him.

“Listen,” he says, coming up close to Andy and keeping his voice low. “If things go well tonight, just, ah, go ahead and come back in the morning.”

Andy turns beet red and grins. “Thank you, Mr. Barrow. You’re a good friend.”

“I am, aren’t I?” Thomas says, returning the grin. “Now get back to work. Lord and Lady Grantham want to use the fine china tonight for their romantic dinner for two.”

“Yes, sir!” Andy gives him a cheeky salute then exits the room.

Thomas leans against the wall and smiles. Theirs will be a church wedding he’ll happily attend.

He serves Lord and Lady Grantham dinner on his own. Mrs Patmore cooks them some meal of romantic and historical significance, because they’re all coos and  _ remember when- _ s when they see it. Thomas goes along with the theme, and serves them wine from the year they married.

“Is this Pinot Noir from 1890?” Lord Grantham asks, eyeing the bottle as Thomas fills his glass.

“A very good year, milord.” Thomas says.

Lady Cora smiles and takes her husband’s hand. “A very good year, indeed.”

They’re amourous for the rest of the night, flirting like Thomas imagines they must have so many years ago. From what he knows of their story, Lord Grantham married her for her money, only to fall into genuine love afterwards. Thomas isn’t sure whether to call that romance or retribution, but he likes it either way.

After dessert, Lord Grantham asks Thomas to set up the victrola in the Great Hall and play some music. He selects a waltz, something slow and dreamy, then steps back and watches them dance together, moving as one in perfect time. The music from the record is tinny and full of fuzz, but Lord and Lady Grantham continue to dance without complaint, utterly lost to the world around them.

That feeling, that pressure in his chest that Thomas felt after parting ways with Lady Mary the night he read  _ The Velveteen Rabbit _ to the children, blossoms once more. When he was younger, he never understood Carson’s unwavering devotion to the Crawleys, but he thinks he understands it now. Yes, they are snobby rich people who’re perfectly capable of taking care of themselves, but taking care of them isn’t just an honor and privilege, it’s a  _ joy _ . 

They may not be his relations, but they are his family.

Serving them, Thomas realizes, is a calling that he must answer. It will take some time to settle into his new role as the Crawleys’ caretaker, and yes, part of him will always wonder  _ what if _ , but if has to choose, he chooses them.

He chooses Downton.

 

Anna, Bates, and Baxter return by the time Lord and Lady Grantham are ready for bed. Talbot and Lady Mary return soon after that, gushing about luxurious food at the Crystal Orchid. Thomas manages to catch Talbot in the hall before he goes off to change into his nightclothes.

“Pardon me, sir.” Thomas says. “When can we expect Mr. Branson to return tonight?”

“I’m not sure,” Talbot says, his brow furrowed. “But I doubt it’ll be too long after midnight.”

Thomas nods. “Thank you, sir. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Barrow.”

While it’s a bit irritating that he has to stay up until everyone is safe at home, it isn’t too much of a chore. He stays in the Servants Hall, just in case Andy returns broken hearted, although he doubts that will happen. Lighting a candle, Thomas decides to use this time to do a bit of reading, some American high society drama. Thomas usually prefers to read adventure stories or mysteries, as he gets enough high society drama in real life. However,  _ The Sketch _ gave it a rave review, so he figures he might as well give it a chance.

 

At some unknown hour, Thomas falls asleep at the table. He dreams of a fancy party in an enormous mansion, but he can’t tell if he’s a servant or a guest. As more and more people flood the house, Thomas becomes lost in the crowd. Someone takes his hand and begins pulling him through the throng that threatens to crush him, but he can’t see his companion’s face.

He tries calling out to him, but music drowns him out. His companion’s grip starts to slip, until they’re only hanging on by a few fingers. The other party guests keep bumping into him, causing his hand to slip further and further and--

At the sound of a car pulling up to the house, he wakes. Thomas peels the pages of his book off of his cheek and rubs the sleep from his eyes. Melted wax overflows the candlestick holder and oozes onto the table. Pulling out his pocket watch, he checks the time.

It’s fifteen minutes past two in the morning.

Blowing out the candle, Thomas rushes upstairs as fast as he can without making too much noise. He makes it to the entrance hall in time to see Branson tumble out of the passenger side of car and onto the gravelled driveway. Thomas stops and stares out the window as Starling hops out the driver's side door and runs around the car to help Branson up.

With a sigh, Thomas runs a hand over his face before opening the front door. He makes his way down the front steps and stops in front of Starling and Branson.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” he asks.

Starling throws Branson’s arm over his shoulder and pulls him up onto his feet. “Time to get a watch?”

Branson laughs at this, but Thomas just rolls his eyes and turns back to get the door. He watches them stumble up the front steps and into the entrance hall.

“What the bloody hell happened?” he asks as he locks the door behind them.

“Someone spiked the punch,” says Starling, struggling under Branson’s drunken weight. “Multiple times. It was more spike than punch, by the end of it.”

At that point, Branson starts  _ singing,  _ and not even a proper song, just some “ _ Doo dum dah-lee, doo dum dah-loo _ ,” in a vaguely familiar tune. Thomas shushes him, and then he starts shushing himself as Thomas takes his other arm over his own shoulder.

“ _ Hush, hush, yes, we must all be quiet now _ ,” says Branson in a harsh whisper.

“Which way to his room?” Starling asks.

“Upstairs,” says Thomas. He looks over Branson’s mussed hair at Starling in the dark as they direct him toward the grand staircase. “ _ You _ don’t seem drunk.”

“Tha’s cause he had nothin’ but water the whole night!” Branson says. Thomas shushes him again. There will be hell to pay for all of them if this wakes up Lord Grantham.

“And you’re lucky I did.” Starling says. “Then who would’ve taken you home?”

“I’d’ve been alright,” Branson mumbles.

Thomas rolls his eyes. “No, you’d be dead in a ditch.”

They make it about halfway up before Branson speaks again.

“Let’s just-- just siddown?” he says, wiggling out of their grip and plopping himself down on the stairs. “Siddown just a minute, just so…”

Branson takes a deep breath and sighs as Starling sits down next to him. They both look up at Thomas, who grits his teeth and sits down as well.

“Tha’s good,” says Branson. “Tha’s much better.”

“I assume the dance went well?” Thomas asks.

Starling shrugs. “Not the worst party I’ve been to, but far from the best.”

“What’re you on about?” Branson attempts to elbow Starling, who just brushes him off. “Y’danced with  _ at least _ four different girls.”

“Yeah, but you danced with  _ five _ .” Starling grins and whacks Branson’s shoulder. “Didn’cha?”

Branson blinks up at the ceiling as if he only just remembers this. “Oh, I  _ did _ . I danced with-- oh, Sybil’s gonna be in a  _ right state _ when she finds out.”

For a moment, Thomas doesn’t understand, wondering why Miss Sybbie would care about how many women her father danced, then it dawns on him, and his chest aches. Branson buries his head in his hands, and Thomas finds he has to look away to keep his own heart from breaking. Starling sighs and rubs his hand back and forth along Branson’s shoulders.

“She’s not going to be angry with you. She  _ wants  _ you to find someone new.” Starling looks up at Thomas. “Doesn’t she, Mr. Barrow?”

Thomas nods and pats Branson on the back. “That she does. Lady Sybil just wants you to be happy.”

“But I  _ can’t  _ be.” Branson’s voice breaks. “No’ wit’ any o’those girls. They’re no’  _ her _ .”

“Branson,” Starling says, but the man keeps going.

“She was the _ love of me life _ , understand?” he says, wiping his wet cheeks. “Me  _ soulmate _ .”

Starling gives him a hard look, one that Thomas is sure he’s never seen before.

“Tom, what did I tell you about soulmates?” he asks. Branson mumbles something. “What was that? C’mon.”

“More’n one.” Branson says, pouting.

Running a hand through Branson’s hair, Starling smiles. “That’s right. The soul is three-dimensional, so it’s got more than one side.”

“Mmh-hmm.” Branson rubs at his eyes, and Thomas is glad to see that there aren’t any more tears.

“That means you’ll match up with more than one person.” Starling says as he flattens out Branson’s hair. “Your wife was just one. You will have others, I promise.”

Thomas eyes him. “You really believe that?”

Starling nods. “I do. Talbot’s a soulmate, my sister’s another. My soul’s  _ at least _ a cube, possibly even a dodecahedron.”

Branson bursts out laughing. “Whassa do--dodec--”

“It’s an object with twelve sides.” Thomas says, a little proud of himself for knowing.

“That’s correct.” Starling says. He smiles at Thomas, then turns his attention back to Branson. “So you’ve got plenty of soulmates to find, and each one is just as important as the others.”

Taking in a deep breath, Branson lies back against the steps and stares up at the chandelier hanging above them. Starling uses this moment to pull out his cigaret pack.

“No,” says Thomas. “No smoking on the grand staircase.”

“If you insist.” Starling says, putting his pack away.

“Y’know,” says Branson, tilting his head to the side in thought. “Y’know, you’re alright, Starling. You really are.”

“Am I?” Starling arches an eyebrow.

Branson nods. “I mean it. And I’m sorry if I was unkind when you first got ‘ere. It’s just, well, it’s just--”

“Just what?” Starling asks.

“Well, the only other one I know is  _ him _ ,” Branson juts his thumb towards Thomas, “and he can he  _ such a prick, _ sometimes.”

Starling slaps a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter, while Branson glances back at Thomas.

“Sorry,” he says.

Thomas just sighs. “It’s fine. Can’t fault you for being accurate, can we?.”

“You’ve gotten better, though.” Branson shrugs. “You used to be  _ much _ worse.”

“Thanks, I guess.” Thomas says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Branson turns back to Starling. “But you, you and I? We got a lot in common, we do.”

“Such as?” says Starling through his fingers.

Throwing his arm over Starling’s shoulder, Branson lets out another sigh. “We are men in exile, looking for redemption.”

“I don’t know about you,” says Starling, “but for me, it’s more of a glorified house arrest than an exile.”

“House arrest?” Thomas frowns. “What do you mean?”

Starling ignores him in favor of adjusting Branson’s arm around his shoulders. “You ready to get up again, buddy?”

Branson yawns, then nods, and all three of them clamber to their feet. Thomas and Starling don’t quite need to carry Branson the way they did at first, but they still hold him upright as they make their way up the staircase and through the halls. Branson trips over his feet a couple times, but they manage to reach his bedroom without much incident.

Thomas flicks the lights on as Branson falls back onto his bed. As he glances around the room, Thomas notes that it’s three times the size of his own room, but to his surprise, he doesn’t feel much bitterness about it. He used to resent anyone who had more than him who wasn’t born with it, but now it’s just a fact of life. 

Starling sits at the end of Branson’s bed and begins to untie the man’s shoes. He looks up at Thomas, then jerks his head back to Branson, as if to ask  _ A little help, here? _

After a bit of struggle, Thomas manages to get Branson out of his jacket and waistcoat. He drapes both items over his arm and turns to put them away in the closet.

“Barrow?” says Branson before another yawn.

Thomas spins on his heel. “Yes, sir?”

“Set a room up for Starling, would you?”

Starling frowns at this as he sets Branson’s shoes on the floor. “What? No, I’m fine. I can just take the train back.”

“There won’t be any trains at this hour.” Thomas says as he turns back to the closet.

“Then I’ll hitch!” Starling says. “Who cares?”

“ _ I _ care, you idiot,” says Branson. “And so does Barrow.”

Starling huffs. “No, he doesn’t. Look, it’s not a big deal.”

“Under no circumstances will you be hitchhiking back to York in the wee hours of the night.” Thomas says. He hangs up the jacket and waistcoat, then turns around to give Starling a hard look.

Starling blinks up and him for a moment before sighing and scratching the back of his neck. “Yeesh, fine.”

“Is there anything else you need, Mr. Branson?”

Branson doesn’t respond. Starling gets up and stands over him, snapping his fingers in front of his face.

“He’s out.” Starling stands up straight and turns to Thomas. “You really don’t need to put me up for the night. I can find something in the village.”

“Starling, this isn’t up for discussion.” Thomas makes his way towards the door. “The guestrooms are right down the hall.”

He grumbles, but relents, follows Thomas as he flicks the lights off and heads out of the room. Starling stays close enough that their arms brush when they walk, and a familiar heat begins to climb up Thomas’s neck. He glances at Starling, but can’t make out his expression in the dark.

“This place is spooky at night.” Starling says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” says Thomas.

Bumping his shoulder, Starling huffs. “I didn’t say I was afraid.”

“No, you didn’t. You said--” Thomas stops in his tracks. “You said you were under house arrest. What did you mean?”

Starling leans against the wall and shrugs. “Just some bullshit about my status as a legal resident of the United Kingdom.”

“What, are you-- are you not allowed to _ leave _ ?” Thomas asks.

“Something like that.” Starling says. “So where’s this room? We’ve passed about ten different doors already.”

“Not all of the guestrooms are set up,” says Thomas as he starts walking again. “But we always have at least one available, just in case.”

Starling follows him, eyeing the doors they walk by. “Shit, how many guestrooms does this place  _ have _ ?”

“Fifty, I think. Maybe a little more than that.”

“ _ Fifty _ ?!”

Thomas whirls around and shushes him. “Would you be  _ quiet _ ?”

“This place has fifty extra fucking bedrooms?” Starling hisses. “ _ Fifty _ ? While there are people sleeping on the fucking  _ street _ ?”

“Now is not the time.” Thomas says. “It’s bloody three in the morning, alright? You can be as righteous as you like when the sun comes up.”

Thomas grabs Starling by the arm and drags him around a corner. “Here, I think this is the one.”

He drops Starling’s arm to dig for his keys in his pocket. Starling steps back, muttering. Thomas pulls his key ring out and flicks through them until he reaches the one that opens all the guestrooms. 

As he pushes the key in and turns the knob, Thomas says to himself, “I hope this isn’t the room William died in.”

“Wait,  _ what _ ?” Starling steps up behind Thomas as he opens the door.

Thomas smiles once he sees the room inside. “Nope, different room.”

He holds the door open and allows Starling to step in ahead of him. Once inside, Thomas closes the door and flicks on the lightswitch. Starling stands in the middle of the room, his arms wrapped tight around himself and his eyes flicking back and forth.

“Do you have anything, um, smaller?” Starling asks.

Thomas frowns. The room is about the same size as Branson’s. “Why would you want something  _ smaller _ ?”

“Big rooms make me uncomfortable.” Starling says as he turns on his feet to take in his surroundings. 

Thomas wants to telling that he’s never heard of such a thing and to stop being ridiculous, but Starling almost looks as if he’s about to fold in on himself -- his shoulders hunched and knees bent.

Instead, Thomas sighs. “It’s just for one night.”

“Yeah, alright.” Starling says, standing up a bit straighter to pull off his jacket.

As Starling tosses the jacket on an armchair next to the bed and begins to unbutton his waistcoat, something wonderful or terrible (or both) occurs to Thomas: he’s alone in a bedroom with a man who has expressed interest in him, and that man is currently undressing.

_ He may never have this chance again. _

Putting his keys back into his pocket, Thomas clears his throat. “I got your card, by the way.”

“What?” Starling stops fussing with his buttons and looks up at him. “Oh, yeah. I’m sorry about that. I just thought it was funny.”

Stepping forwards, Thomas smiles. “There’s no need to apologize. I liked it.”

“You did?” Starling swallows and runs a hand through his hair. “That’s, um, that’s good. I’m glad.”

“I know I said I didn’t have time for, well,  _ anything _ , but,” Thomas licks his lips, “since we’re already  _ here _ …”

Starling blinks. “Really?”

“Yes,” says Thomas. “But we’ll have to be quick.”

“I can do that.”

“And quiet.”

Starling grins at him and nods.

“And-- and--” Thomas shuts his eyes, hating that he has to say this. “And just this once, alright? Never again.”

After a moment of silence, Thomas opens his eyes again. Starling stares at him, his mouth open just so.  He bites his lip, then steps up to Thomas, his eyes scanning him up and down behind his hair. He’s close, so close that that Thomas can see the little hairs turn up on his neck. Starling touches his hip with just the tips of his fingers and leans in even closer. Tilting his head, his nose brushes Thomas’s cheek.

Starling drops to his knees. Thomas blinks, confused for a fraction of a second before Starling presses the palm on his hand against the front of his trousers. He lets out a sound, but stuffs his gloved hand into his mouth before he can say anything further. Starling grins up at him and works open his fly.

_ Fucking hell _ , it’s been so long. Thomas shivers as Starling pulls his cock out and begins pumping him, his breath warm against the shaft. Who was even the last person to do this to him? Was it Philip? It must have been, but all thoughts of Philip or anyone else disappear when Starling closes his mouth around him, hot and wet and  _ perfect _ . With a whine, Thomas struggles to keep himself upright as Starling works his way down his cock, whirling his wicked tongue along the underside.

Thomas puts his free hand in Starling’s wild hair. How is it so  _ soft _ ? He tugs, and Starling moans, sending vibrations through his entire body. He takes his other hand from his mouth digs it into that thick mane of hair as well.

“Seth,” Thomas breathes. “ _ Seth _ .”

He tugs again, this time with both hands, and Seth makes the most heavenly sounds around his cock. Seth pulls back until just the head of his cock remains in his beautiful, evil mouth, then pushes forwards, enveloping Thomas completely. His grip on Starling’s hair tightens and his hips jerk. Seth  _ sucks _ , hard and--

Thomas comes, deep into Seth’s throat. He grits his teeth to keep himself from screaming as tears start to sting in his eyes. Seth swallows and his fingers dig bruises into his thigh and hip.

HIs heart pounding, he looks down and watches as Seth slowly pulls his cock from his mouth. It falls, limp, from his lips. Thomas wishes with every fiber of his soul that he had lasted longer, but it’d been over a  _ decade  _ since he had anything even  _ close  _ to this.

_ It’s alright _ , Thomas thinks. He can make it up to him, he can make Seth feel just as good--

But then he turns away, doesn’t even look at Thomas as he stands to his feet.

“The bathroom through here?” Starling asks, tilting his head to a door on the other side of the room as his does up his own trousers.

“Yes, but,” Thomas reaches for him. “Let me--”

“No need!” Starling flashes him a grin but doesn’t meet his eye, and holds up his right hand, which is covered in his own release. “I took care of myself.”

“But--” Thomas can’t seem to move. His arms and legs feel like cement as Starling walks away from him.

He opens the bathroom door and disappears behind it. Thomas can hear the sink running.

No, no,  _ no _ . This isn’t how this was supposed to happen.  _ How was this supposed to happen _ ? It was all too fast, too much and not enough all at once.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barrow.” Starling says from the other side of the door.

Something cold and sharp digs its way into his chest. 

“Goodnight,” he says.

He leaves. He doesn’t want to go, but he can’t seem to make his arms and legs do what he tells them to. Thomas screams at himself in his head, but that doesn’t stop his body from turning around and opening the bedroom door. He should be running back, he should be  _ fixing  _ this somehow, but instead he’s just going through the halls and heading down the stairs in the dark.

 

Once he makes it to his room, Thomas regains most of his control over his own limbs, but he can’t seem to make himself go back. He takes off his jacket and hangs it up in his small closet, then moves on to his waistcoat. By all accounts, he got exactly what he wanted: a quick, no-strings-attached bit of fun, a sort of last hurrah before throwing himself into his work entirely. He was in utter bliss while it was happening, so why is he so miserable now that it’s over?

Exhaustion eats at him to the point where he can’t even be bothered to to take off his shirt, shoes, and trousers. He just falls back onto his bed and stares up at the ceiling. Running over the events of the night in his head, Thomas tries to pinpoint where exactly things went wrong.

Should he have given in, and found Starling a smaller room when he asked for one? Thomas isn’t sure what room that would have been, except for maybe the one he’s in now. His stomach twists at the thought. If he’d brought Starling down here, then, well, he’d be here still, woulding he? He and Thomas could bask in the post-coital glow and fall asleep in each other’s arms.

No, no. Thomas shakes his head and rubs at his eyes. That wouldn’t have worked. What if someone had heard them? He knows he wasn’t nearly as quiet as he’d meant to be.

_ Who? Who would’ve heard us? There’s no one else down here. _

Thomas shakes his head again. No, that wasn’t--

_ We wouldn’t have had to be quick, either. We could’ve taken our time. _

Thomas shuts his eyes against the thought, but then the image of Starling on his knees before him appears in his head. A glorious sight indeed, but if they’d been  _ here _ , Thomas could have seen  _ more _ . He could’ve seen his chest and his back and his legs (er, leg) and his ass and his cock. He could’ve buried his face in Starling’s ridiculous hair and kissed--

He jolts upright, struck by bolt of understanding. That’s what went wrong. That’s why it all felt so empty and meaningless.

“I didn’t get to  _ kiss  _ him.”

Tears sting his eyes again as he collapses back onto the bed. He mutters curses to himself as he tries not to cry. He almost did. He  _ almost  _ kissed him, but then Starling just dropped to his fucking knees. Who does that? What sort of complete nutter would do that without  _ kissing  _ someone first?

Starling, of course. Starling was mad. It was all his fucking fault because he didn’t know how to do things  _ properly _ .

He turns to lay on his side and lets himself fantasize about how it  _ should  _ have gone, with caresses and sighs, all culminating in sweet kisses goodnight. It alleviates his disappointment enough to let him sleep.

 

A door closes. Thomas sits up, his heart pounding and his eyes alert. He leaps off of his bed and rushes out of the room, only giving the empty Servants Hall a glance before running to the back door. He throws it open and swallows down the lump in his throat.

“Seth!”

Starling stops in his tracks a little ways down the lane. Thomas isn’t sure how he knew he’d be here, but he’s glad he did. The first rays of sunlight have appeared over the horizon, melting into the sky as orange and rose-gold. Starling turns and blinks at him with wide eyes. Somehow, his hair is worse than usual, sticking out at all sorts of angles, and Thomas laughs when he realizes that  _ he  _ did that.

He takes a moment to gather his courage, then treads out onto the dirt path. Everything is soft and dewy in the cool morning air. It feels like it takes longer to reach Starling than it should, as if time has agreed to slow down, just this once, just for them.

“I didn’t--” Thomas says, but Starling stops him.

“You didn’t have to do anything,” he says, shaking his head.

“No,” says Thomas. He puts his hands on either side of Starling’s head. “I didn’t get to kiss you goodnight.”

With that, Thomas pulls him in and presses their mouths together.

The kiss is soft, and chaste, and better than any kiss he’s ever had before. His chest floods with warmth as his heart unfolds. It’s as if light has finally reached the dark, dusty places inside of him that have been locked up for years.

They break apart, but stay close. Thomas slides one hand down Starling’s neck, and rubs his thumb back and forth across his cheek with the other.

“Oh,”  Starling says as he lets out a trembling breath. “Well, goodnight, then.”

Thomas smiles. “Goodnight.”

He gulps, then Starling turns to look behind him. “So, uh, the train station is that way?”

Thomas drops his hands, and suppresses the urge to take hold of him again. Instead, he nods.

“Yes,” he says. “Just a mile or so up the road. Will you be alright?”

Starling grins at him as he steps backwards down the lane. “I’m more than that, thank you.”

“That you are,” says Thomas.

With one last wave, Starling spins on his feet and begins his journey back to York. Thomas watches him for a while, a bit awe-struck that this strange, silly, wonderful person is in his life.

He turns back to the house, ready to start the day.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Crawleys host a garden party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd really like to thank Laramie (aka starrythomas on tumblr) for all of his help. There's no way this would've been written without him <3
> 
> A couple warnings:  
> 1\. There's a brief discussion regarding the of the death, from illness, of an infant. It happened many years before the story.  
> 2\. Characters briefly discuss eugenics, and one character says some racist, antisemitic things in support of this pseudo-science. Don't worry, it isn't anyone we like.  
> 3\. A character calls another a misogynistic slur, and another character repeats this slur when telling someone else what they said.  
> 4\. Thomas's suicide attempt is mentioned in passing a few times.
> 
> If there's anything else you feel I should warn for, please let me know.

 Thomas doesn’t see Seth Starling again for over a month, but does feel his presence every day.

It’s there when Daisy shows off her engagement ring to the other servants, tilting her hand back and forth in order to catch the light just so. People gush over it, crowding around Daisy while she basks in their attention. She’s even called upstairs at one point so that Lady Mary and Lady Grantham can admire it. Everyone is happy for them, including Thomas, but whenever the subject comes up, the image of Starling in a jewelry shop appears in his head.

He imagines Starling pulling Andy away from the traditional diamond rings to look at some more unique items. Both Andy and the shop clerk get confused at first, but soon come around when Starling says that opals have fire in them, just like Daisy.

Andy uses that line when people ask him how he picked it out. Thomas wonders if he and Bates are the only ones who know that it’s not something he came up with himself, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

Starling’s on his mind when Andy pulls Thomas aside about a week after Valentine’s. It occurs to Thomas that they might have been seen by the young couple that morning, and when Andy asks to speak with him privately, several alarms go off in his mind.

_They’ll use it against me_ , he thinks as he follows Andy into a secluded hallway downstairs. _This is blackmail_.

He regrets the thought the moment Andy speaks.

“I was wondering,” says Andy, with his head bowed and a small smile on his face, “if you’d be my best man?”

Thomas blinks. “What? You-- you mean, at the wedding? _Me_?”

“Yes, you!” Andy says. “You got me this job! There wouldn’t be no wedding if it weren’t for you.”

Relief, flattery, and guilt that he could ever think that Andy would do something so cruel floods his mind, and Thomas has to rub his eyes for a moment to regain his bearings.

He puts his hand on Andy’s shoulder and smiles. “Of course, Andy, I’d love to.”

“Brilliant!” Andy glances up and down the hall before leaning inward. “And, er, if you’d like to bring Mr. Starling as, you know, your guest, that’d be alright.”

Thomas snatches his hand away, and the alarms in his head go off again, except he doesn’t know if they’re alarms for panic or warning or _what_.

Andy steps back and scratches the back of his head, embarrassed. “Or not? You can bring someone else, or nobody at all, I guess. Whatever you like.”

His mouth dry, Thomas tries to swallow a few times while he thinks of what to say. Does he deny it all? Say that he doesn’t know what Andy’s talking about, and how dare he imply--

“Thank you,” he sighs.

“It’s no problem, Mr. Barrow,” says Andy, shrugging.

Thomas smiles at him. “I think that if I’m going to be your best man, you should start calling me Thomas.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Andy smiles back. “It’s no problem, Thomas, really.”

“Let’s just cross that bridge when we come to it, eh?” says Thomas. “In the meantime, let’s talk about your stag.”

Andy, it turns out, isn’t exactly sure if he wants a stag, but promises to consider it. It’s not much of an issue, as the young couple wish to hold the wedding some time in autumn, giving them plenty of time. However, after that conversation, Thomas can’t help but picture Starling at his side whenever he thinks about the wedding.

He has no plans of actually inviting him, of course. That would be ridiculous.

Thomas is able to take his mind off Starling when the family decides to host a garden party at the end of March. It’s the first social event at Downton since New Year’s, and the first one Thomas will oversee as butler. As a result, Carson’s butler lessons become longer and more tedious. One evening, he towers over Thomas like a schoolteacher and forces him to write _the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog_ over and over again until he finally approves of his penmanship. Only then is Thomas allowed to write out the invitations.

Much to his dismay, Thomas learns that they must send out over twice as many invitations than attendees the family actually wants or expects to come to the party.

“Believe it or not,” Carson says as he drops the enormous tome that is the family’s address book on the desk in their office, “it is a worse insult to not be invited to a party than it is to decline an invitation one receives.”

“I see,” says Thomas, even though a significant part of himself wishes to declare this to all be rich people nonsense.

“Considering the amount of invitations the Crawleys receive,” says Carson, “we are lucky that Lady Grantham prefers to respond to them personally, instead of leaving the task to us.”

Thomas eyes the address book as Carson flips through the pages. “Well then, God bless Lady Grantham.”

“God bless her, indeed.”

May God also bless Mrs. Hughes, who steps in to help after Carson is only able to write out three invitations before giving up in frustration. She and Thomas split the work by having her write out the cards while he writes the addresses. Carson stays with them in the office to supervise.

“There is a _blot_ on the envelope for the Duke and Duchess of Crowborough.” Carson says, taking it out of the pile of completed invitations and handing it to Thomas. This happens every once in a while, where he demands the address be rewritten for what Thomas feels are minor, inconsequential reasons.

Thomas selects a new envelope. “You don’t even _look_ at what Mrs. Hughes writes.”

“That’s because I’ve been writing invitations with him for decades.” Mrs. Hughes says.

“Doesn’t mean you’re _infallible_.” Thomas mutters as he rewrites the address, wondering when exactly Philip found himself a Duchess. “Are we _certain_ about the Crowboroughs? From what I recall, things were a bit awkward last time he was here.”

Carson grumbles, and for a moment Thomas thinks he might agree with him, but then Mrs. Hughes shakes her head.

“That was ages and ages ago,” she says. “Besides, everything worked out alright.”

“Then why not invite Sir Anthony Strallan?” Thomas asks. “Everything worked out alright for Lady Edith, better even.”

“Because the Duke is a social superior,” says Carson. “While Sir Strallan is _not_.”

Thomas sighs as he finishes writing the address. “Yes, sir, of course.” He holds up the envelope. “Is this acceptable?”

Carson eyes it for a moment, then nods, and Thomas puts the card in the new envelope before selecting another. Pursing his lips, he goes over the list of addresses to count how many they have left.

“Wait,” he says. “Are we not inviting Mrs. Crawley?”

“If by ‘Mrs. Crawley’ you mean the Baroness Merton, Lady Isobel Grey, she and her husband are very much invited.” Carson says, picking up one of the sealed envelopes. “Their invitation is right here.”

“The _Baroness Merton_? When did _that_ happen?” says Thomas, agape.

Mrs. Hughes pauses in her writing. “It was, ah, while you were away, I think.”

“Oh,” says Thomas.

“You must learn not only to keep up with the social upheavals within Downton,” says Carson, “but within its surroundings, as well.”

Thomas nods, taking a deep breath to keep himself calm. He wants to scream that the only reason he didn’t know about it was because he made Thomas leave, but he can’t have another row with Carson, not after the last one. Instead, he just closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them, he selects another blank envelope and writes the next address without another word.

He likes to think that no one really wanted him leave, that he was just as much a part of the Downstairs family as everyone else, but he knows that isn’t true. He also knows that it’s his own fault that he stood apart from the rest of the servants, with all his scheming.

_They have every right to hate you_ , he thinks. _You’re lucky that they don’t. You’re lucky that they let you come back. You’re lucky that they saved you from yourself._

But at this moment, with his heart pounding in his ears, Thomas doesn’t feel lucky at all. The anger is back. All his life, it has come and gone like the tide. He used to be able to focus it on whoever he thought had wronged him (usually Bates), but it’s become more difficult in the past few years. Without anyone to project his loathing onto, it just crashes down on himself like a tidal wave.

The worst part is that, on some level, he wants it to. He wants to drown in it, to suffocate, to sleep and never have to wake up and fight it ever again.

“Thomas?” Mrs. Hughes touches his arm, pulling him out of his reverie.

He forces himself to smile at her. “Yes, ma’am?”

“It’s getting late,” she says. “Perhaps you should get some rest. We can save the rest of these for the morning.”

Carson frowns. “I would much prefer that this task be completed _tonight_.”

“I agree with Mr. Carson.” Thomas says. “It shouldn’t take much longer anyway. Let’s finish what we started, shall we?”

Mrs. Hughes looks at him for a few moments, her eyebrows knit together, then sighs. “Alright, if you say so.”

 

When he finally does turn in for the night, his mind dips into the usual fantasies of happiness and fulfillment. The context has changed over the years, from living in luxury with Philip to just having Jimmy as his friend again. He hates that these imaginings are always built on another person, as if simply being happy with _himself_ is so ridiculous that he can’t even fantasize about it.

Even on the occasions when he thinks he could be satisfied with nothing but a steady, well-paying job, Thomas knows that he still wants more.

The worst part is that it’s never the other way around. Never once does he consider the idea that he couldn’t live in abject poverty as long as he wasn’t alone.

_There’s almost a billion people on this planet. I think being alone might be physically impossible._

Thomas turns over in his bed and buries his face in his pillow, groaning. If he could, he’d strictly forbid himself from giving Starling a starring role in his imaginary happiness. He’d turn him into a purely sexual figure, a nameless face eager to get down on his knees, not a real person he could _have_ and _be with_.

He might have been able to if he hadn’t run out and kissed him after their encounter, but it can’t be undone.

How has he been?

Does he like it in York? Does he miss Berlin? Or Vienna, or Minsk, or any of the other faraway places he’s traveled to?

Does he think about Thomas as much as Thomas thinks about him?

Has he--

“Shit,” Thomas mutters out loud. He shouldn’t think about this. He shouldn’t care. It doesn’t matter.

_Has he met anyone else?_

Thomas rolls over onto his back. “It doesn’t _matter_.”

He has no reason to wonder about that. How the hell is he jealous of an entirely hypothetical situation? It’s just that Starling hasn’t come to the house in while, and now Thomas is jumping to all sorts of stupid conclusions, because this is what happens. This is what always happens. He loses his bloody mind whenever he--

Whenever he has _feelings_ for someone.

 

A week before the party, while Thomas adjusts the grandfather clock in the drawing room for daylight savings (which he detests because all it does is create more work, they have the same amount of daylight no matter what they do to the clocks), Branson approaches him.

“Oh, Barrow, there you are.” Branson says as he enters the room. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Thomas holds back a sigh, and turns away from the clock to face him. They haven’t had much interaction since the early hours of February 15th, which Thomas suspects they’re both grateful for.

“How may I help you, sir?” he asks.

“It’s a bit last-minute, but you should know that Starling’s coming to the party,” says Branson.

“What?” Heat rises up Thomas’s neck. “I mean, is that _wise_ , sir?”

Branson scrunches his face, as if he isn’t sure if it’s the best idea either, then shrugs. “Look, we have to introduce him to Lord Grantham sooner or later. After all, if we go forward with his designs, he won’t just be our mechanic--”

“He’d be your lead engineer,” Thomas says. He looks down at the floor and frowns. Something about that puts a bad taste in his mouth.

“Exactly,” says Branson. “We figure the garden party’s a good place to do it, since it’s a more casual affair. It’ll help him get used to, you know, interacting with rich folk. Besides, if something goes wrong, he can just bolt off into the woods.”

Thomas holds back a laugh at the thought of this. “Alright, thank you for telling me. I shall make any necessary adjustments.”

Clapping his hands, Branson nods. “Lovely! It shouldn’t be too much, he’s just one person.”

“And a fairly small one at that,” says Thomas. Branson laughs, and Thomas smiles to himself before turning back to the grandfather clock. “If that’s all--”

At that moment, Talbot walks into the drawing room. “Ah, Barrow, _there_ you are!”

Branson holds up a hand. “I just told him. We’re all set for the party.”

“Well, we’re not _all_ set.” Talbot says, his brow furrowed. “There’s still one thing we have to do.”

“I know, I know.” Branson puts his hands on his hips and sighs. “He’ll hate us for it, but it has to be done.”

Thomas looks back and forth between them, not sure what they’re talking about or if he’s even supposed to hear them. “Is, er, is there anything I could do, sirs?”

“Maybe?” Branson looks at Thomas and scratches his chin before glancing back at Talbot. “We could bring him along, say it’s _his_ idea.”

Talbot shakes his head. “No, that won’t work. I’m afraid this is something we have to do ourselves.”

The two exit the room, muttering to each other about whatever ominous task sits before them. Thomas leans out the archway and watches them head down the hall, wracking his mind for any inkling of just what it is Branson and Talbot have to do before the party. It’s something to do with Starling, he’s certain, but what in the world could they do to make him _hate_ them? As far as Thomas can tell, Starling considers them both good friends.

They turn a corner and leave his sight. Thomas shakes his head, sighs, then returns to working on the clock. His stomach churns in a mix of confusion, excitement, and worry. Of course, he wants to see Starling again, but the thought of him being an official party guest of the Crawleys seems _off_.

Before, even when he had tea with Lady Mary and Lady Cora, Starling was a sort of worker whom the family was kind enough to socialize with. It had just been tea, not a meal or a party.

Thomas closes the clock face and grimaces as the realization hits him: if Starling is their guest, if he becomes the lead engineer in Talbot and Branson’s motor company, that would make him an _Upstairs_ person. He once seemed to exist parallel to the stairs, sort of like the nanny. An employee, but not a servant.

He takes a deep breath and reminds himself that this has happened before. Branson made the transition, after all. It was a bit insulting at first, to call the old chauffeur _sir_ , but Thomas got used to it. He can get used to Starling’s transition as well.

It won’t be as sudden and extreme as Branson’s, which is nice. Thomas figures he’ll still come around to fix things, maybe even show up with baked goods for the servants again. Power dynamics will change, though. That was something he rather liked about Starling, that they were on an equal footing.

Pity it couldn’t last.

Nothing good ever does.

 

When the day of the party finally arrives, Thomas, who has been trying to stop mooning over the man for ages, actually manages to forget that Starling is coming. He’s so caught up in getting everything ready (setting up the tables, laying out the hors d’oeuvres, stacking the wine glasses in an aesthetically pleasing pyramid, etc), that he doesn’t even notice when he shows up.

In fact, Thomas doesn’t quite recognize him when he first sees him.

It happens when he’s helping Andy carry a large sponge cake across the garden. He walks forwards, holding one end of the tray, while Andy walks backwards, holding the other end. A man in a brown suit stands in their way, smoking a cigarette and staring down at his shoes.

“Excuse us, sir!” Thomas says.

The man looks up and steps back to clear the path, but Thomas halts in his tracks when he sees that it’s Starling.

Andy glances behind him. “Oh, Mr. Starling! You, you--”

“You got a haircut,” says Thomas, his eyes wide and blinking.

Starling purses his lips and carefully pats the top of his head. His once wild hair has been shorn and slicked back with copious amounts of pomade, but instead of looking respectable, he looks like a child playing at adulthood. Thomas thinks back to that day in Starling’s flat, when Talbot teased him for always being _artfully disheveled_ , and realizes that the dishevelment served an actual purpose. Without it, his head looks too small for his body, his features too big for his face. Even his ears stick out.

“It’s not that bad,” Thomas says.

“Well, now I know it _is_ ,” Starling says. He throws his cigarette on the ground and stomps off.

Thomas and Andy watch him walk back towards the house for a moment before continuing their journey with the cake.

“Do you think Mr. Talbot and Mr. Branson made him get it?” Andy asks as they set the cake down on a table under a canvas tent.

_Abso-fucking-lutely_ , Thomas thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Instead, he says, “Yes, I suspect they did.”

“I’ve always had trouble with my own hair,” says Andy, reaching up to tug on an errant curl. “If I didn’t work in service, I’d probably just let it go wild like he does.”

“Like he _did_ ,” says Thomas. “C’mon, there’s still work to be done. Can’t stand around speculating about the guests’ hairdos.”

 

Thomas sees him again when he decides to take a quick smoke break about forty-five minutes later, after everything has been set up, but before the rest of the guests begin to arrive. He finds Starling leaning back against the wall of the garage, where he parked his motorbike when he came to install the new telephones. Judging by the small pile of cigarette butts at his feet, Thomas figures that he’d been smoking out here for a while.

“No motorbike today?” Thomas asks as he pulls out his own pack from his pocket.

“Nope,” says Starling, exhaling a stream of smoke. “Apparently it would have interfered with _this_ monstrosity.”

He points to his hair and sighs. Lighting up his own cigarette, Thomas cocks his head to the side and looks him up and down. The only time he’s seen the usually confident Starling so uncomfortable was when he thought the guest room Thomas put him in was too big, only instead of curling in on himself, he keeps arching his back and pressing himself against the garage wall like a scratching post.

“I heard them talking about it,” says Thomas, “although I didn’t know what they meant at the time. They just kept saying it was something that had to be done. I must admit that I agree. You could not have attended a party at Downton with the way your hair was before.”

“I need it that way, though.” Starling says, knocking the back of his head against the wall. “I gotta keep it long to weigh it down, otherwise it sticks out everywhere.”

Thomas rolls his eyes as he takes a drag. “It stuck out everywhere, regardless.”

Starling grumbles. “It’s worse when it’s shorter, so I then I have to pile on the product, which I _hate_.”

“Why do you hate it?”

He struggles to find the words, patting the top of his head with his hand again. “It just, it _almost_ itches. Does that make sense?”

“Not particularly.” Thomas says. “You look younger, though. That should be a plus.”

Taking another drag from his cigarette, Starling shakes his head. “I look like I’m _twelve_.”

“Oh, you don’t look _twelve_ ,” says Thomas. “Early twenties, maybe.”

“Whatever, man. I bet you roll out of bed looking like an effing Layendecker.”

Thomas frowns. “ _Effing_?”

“Branson bet me five quid I couldn’t go the whole day without swearing.” Starling says. “No German or Yiddish swears either.”

“Oh, that’s _brilliant_ ,” Thomas chuckles. “You won’t last an hour.”

Starling drops his cigarette on the ground and crushes it with his right foot. “I absolutely _can_ and _will_ , so you can just shut the eff up, ok?”

Thomas laughs again before taking another drag. Over the past few weeks, as he imagined seeing and talking to Starling again, he never thought it would be this easy, as if no time had passed at all. He figured it would be awkward, wrought with tension and heavy with words unsaid. Instead they fall into conversation like old friends, not people who have only met a handful of times before.

“So, what about you?” Starling asks as he lights up another cigarette. “How was your March?”

“Not nearly as good as my February.” Thomas says.

Starling takes the cigarette out of his mouth and gives him that slow, Cheshire Cat grin. “Your February that good, huh?”

“Best I’ve had in years,” says Thomas.

He reaches out and brushes a bit of ash from Starling’s jacket. Starling glances down and watches this, eyeing Thomas’s fingers with interest and smiling wider when he pulls his hand away.

“Don’t want to look like an ashtray when you meet Lord Grantham.” Thomas says.

Starling shrugs. “I’ve looked worse.”

Thomas squints at him. “Have you?”

“Oh, _shut up_.” Starling groans and holds his head in his hands. “They put me in this awful suit, too. I’m never forgiving them. This ain’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, but it’s up there.”

“What’s the worst thing that ever happened to you, then?” Thomas asks, but the moment the words leave his mouth, he wants to take them back, horrified that he asked such a thoughtless question.

Starling takes his cigarette from his mouth and looks up at the clear blue sky with a strange expression on his face, his brow furrowed but his eyes wide. Thomas can sense the gears turning in his head, and watches him think in silence for a moment.

Looking away, Thomas clears his throat. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to--”

“My niece dying, I think?” Starling says. “She was only a few months old.”

Thomas shuffles his weight on his feet, curious but also hesitant. He sucks on his cigarette and holds the smoke in his lungs until it hurts. This probably isn’t a story he should hear, but he’s longed to know more about Starling since he first saw his postcard. Considering how easily he told Thomas about his medicine, he wonders if Starling would really mind telling him about this.

After a few more seconds of deliberation, Thomas decides to just ask. “What happened?”

“She got sick.” Starling keeps his gaze up at the sky above them. “I got her sick.”

Thomas frowns, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. “How?”

“I got the flu,” he says, “and then I gave it to Harriet. Should’ve been more careful.”

Opening his mouth, Thomas searches for the right way to respond to this. He wants to say that it wasn’t his fault, that these things happen, but he suspects that Starling has already heard that a hundred times.

“I have nephews,” says Thomas, surprising himself. “I haven’t seen them since I left home.”

But Starling doesn’t seem to have heard him. He rubs a hand over his face and shakes his head.

“I shouldn’t have told you that,” he says. “I don’t know why I told you that. I never even told _Talbot_ about that.”

“Seth,” says Thomas. He reaches out to touch his shoulder, but Starling flinches away.

“Oi! Starling!”

They both turn to see Branson standing at the back door to the house, his hands cupped around his mouth. He smiles at them, and Thomas has never hated him more.

“Quit flirting with Barrow and get over here, will ya?”

Starling drops his cigarette and follows Branson into the house. Thomas has to close his eyes to keep himself from watching him leave. A raging heat boils in his chest and he must resist the urge to punch the garage wall.

They were not fucking flirting. Maybe they were at first, but they had very much stopped. Branson couldn’t have been standing there long, or he would have seen that the conversation had taken a significant turn. Why couldn’t Branson just mind his own business?

Why couldn’t _Thomas_ just mind his own business? Why did he _ask_?

The image of his own sister, Margaret, cradling little Billy in her arms appears to him, and he misses her in a way he hasn’t missed anyone, not even Jimmy. It hits him deep, and it’s like he’s fifteen again, begging her to let him stay with her family after Dad threw him out.

_I can’t have you around my boys, Thomas._

He throws his cigarette down onto the pile on the ground and presses his forehead against the wall of the garage. Clenching his hands to his chest, he takes several deep breaths. In, out. In, out. A strange, incongruent sort of jealousy washes over him, that Starling still _has_ his sister after everything that happened, and he hates himself for it.

_Mags, please._

Thomas wills himself not to cry. He cannot be a pathetic, weeping mess while the Crawleys are hosting a party. He must be calm, cool, and collected. No, he must be _less_ than that, an automaton who doesn’t think or feel anything. There are so many days where an automaton is all he can be, and he absolutely must become that now.

_I never even told Talbot about that._

The corners of his mouth twitch. Thomas knows something about Seth Starling that Henry Talbot doesn’t know. He hardly knows anything about him at all, but he knows this. It’s a selfish thing to be pleased with, but Thomas is a selfish person, isn’t he? There’s something terribly satisfying about it, almost victorious. He focuses on this strange victory, turning it into a precious gem in his mind.

It calms him down just enough so that he can get back to work.

 

The next few guests to arrive are Dr. Clarkson, the Dowager Countess, the recently titled Lady Isobel, and her new husband, Lord Merton. Thomas finds it particularly amusing to watch Dr. Clarkson put on a good face for the happy couple, as it’s common knowledge that he’s held a torch for the former Mrs. Crawley for ages. The amusement is twinged with guilt, however. He knows he shouldn’t delight in the misfortunes of others, particularly the misfortunes of a man who, just last summer, saved Thomas’s life.

It occurs to Thomas as he pours Dr. Clarkson his tea at the table where he sits with the Dowager Countess, that he has never forgiven him for what happened to Lieutenant Courtenay.  Both he and Lady Sybil (Nurse Crawley, at the time), had tried to warn him that Courtenay was depressed, but the good doctor refused to listen. However, he supposes that some good came out of the tragedy that followed, as soon afterwards, Downton was turned into a convalescent home.

Still, Dr. Clarkson just knows too much _about_ Thomas, and as such, Thomas cannot entirely trust him.

“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Barrow,” says Clarkson, smiling up at him from his chair. “I’d like to congratulate you on your promotion.”

Thomas bows his head. “Thank you, sir.”

“An excellent choice, in my opinion,” says the Dowager Countess before taking a sip of her tea. “A certain level of ruthlessness is admirable in a butler.”

Holding back a smile, Thomas bows his head to the Dowager as well. “Thank you, milady. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Did Mrs. Patmore make any madeleines?” The Dowager asks, eyeing one of the nearby refreshment tables.

“Yes, milady, with lemon zest. Would you like me to bring you some?”

“Just two, if you please.”

As Thomas fetches the madeleines for the Dowager, he wonders if she knows how many times he’s been inches away from being sacked. Perhaps she does, and that’s why she considers him ruthless. He’s happy to learn that she finds such a characteristic to admirable, although it’s probably because she’s a certain amount of ruthless herself.

The next guests are Lord and Lady Hexham, although Thomas prefers to think of them as Lady Edith and her Trophy Husband. This isn’t meant as a slight against Bertie Pelham, but a commentary on how much life has improved for Lady Edith after years of living in her sister’s shadow. They’ve brought Marigold with them, who Thomas is happy to see running across the lawn with her cousins again. She’s a sweet little girl, although not as precocious as Miss Sybbie or as immediately attention-grabbing as Master George.

_They take after their mothers_ , Thomas thinks as he watches them run by.

As the party grows, Thomas takes his post next to the drinks table, where he mixes light cocktails. The most popular is a new one called a Mimosa, which he’s glad to find is easy to make.

Starling approaches the table with Branson, who looks sheepish when Thomas catches his eye.

“Can I just get orange juice?” Starling asks.

“Of course,” Thomas says.

“Same for me,” says Branson.

Thomas nods and selects two glasses before picking up the pitcher of orange juice.

Starling gives Branson a sideways glance. “You know I don’t drink for medical reasons, right? I’m not gonna judge you or anything.”

“I’ve given the stuff up for Lent,” says Branson.

“Did that just start?” Starling asks as Thomas hands him his glass.

“No, Easter’s in about a week,” says Branson. “Doesn’t that mean Passover’s coming up?”

“It starts the day after tomorrow, I think?” Starling shrugs and sips his juice. “There’s some kinda community Seder at Aldwark.”

Branson pats Starling’s arm. “You should go!”

“Are you reverse-proselytizing me, or something?” Starling laughs. “Father Dominic won’t be happy about that.”

“I won’t tell him if you don’t,” says Branson, grinning as he steps away.

Starling watches him go with a wry look on his face before rolling his eyes and sighing. “He’s always doing that.”

“I think he puts a lot of value on the faith of one’s heritage.” Thomas says, keeping his voice low. “He faced some opposition when he wanted Sybbie to be baptized Catholic.”

“So I’ve heard,” says Starling. He throws a glance over his shoulder at Lord Grantham, who converses with Talbot and Lord Hexham. “Any tips on how to get on the Earl’s good side?”

“He likes cricket.”

Starling blinks at him. “Crickets?”

“No, _cricket_ , the sport.” Thomas says.

“Mr. Barrow, look at me.” Starling gestures to his person. “Is this the body of someone who knows anything about sports?”

Thomas smiles. “Ask him to explain it to you.”

“Oh, that’s actually a good idea!” Starling looks back at Lord Grantham again. “Wish me luck.”

“Break a leg,” says Thomas. He pauses. “Wait, no--”

Starling bursts out into loud, extended laughter, which attracts the attention of the other guests. Heat spreads across Thomas’s face as he looks down at the table in front of him in embarrassment.

“It’s a very _common expression_ ,” he hisses. “You know I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I’m not laughing at what you said,” says Starling as he wipes the corner of his eye. “I’m laughing at the look on your face when you realized you said it.”

To Thomas’s relief, Mary appears, looking utterly angelic in her white dress and wide-brimmed hat. She takes Starling’s arm and begins to pull him away.

“I think that’s enough teasing for Mr. Barrow,” she says. “Come, Seth, I’d like you to meet my father.”

Starling glances back at Thomas. “But teasing Mr. Barrow is my favorite thing to do!”

“You are such a little _schoolboy_ sometimes.” Mary says. “You’re lucky you saved my husband’s life.”

“That’s why I did it,” says Starling, winking at Thomas before he turns his attention to Mary. “I had to make sure his future in-laws would put up with me.”

Lord Grantham eyes Starling as he approaches with Mary, his lips pursed as if he isn’t sure what to think of him, which Thomas supposes his how most people look at Starling. He’s a walking social conundrum.

“I’d like to hear the whole story behind this heroic adventure.” Lord Grantham says.

“I wouldn’t call it a heroic adventure so much as a series of terrible decisions on my part,” says Starling.

Talbot laughs. “Are you saying you _regret_ saving me?”

“I’m saying I regret leaving a faulty grenade around where you could knock it over,” says Starling, “and then trying to kick it out of the way when I saw the pin fall out.”

“You _what_?” Lord Grantham’s eyes widen for a moment, and then he turns to Talbot with a frown. “Henry, I was under the distinct impression that this happened in _battle_.”

“So was I!” says Lord Hexham.

“What? Why?” says Talbot, trying to look innocent. “I never said it was in battle.”

“You’re always leaving that part out for some reason.” Starling gives Talbot a pointed look over his glass of orange juice. “God only knows why.”

“God only knows why you left a _grenade_ on a _desk_ ,” says Talbot.

Starling rolls his eyes. “I only put it there for a minute!”

 

They drift out of earshot, and Thomas is relieved, because concentrating on his work and keeping his face blank like a good servant is difficult with Starling nearby. Even when he can’t hear him, Thomas finds himself glancing over in Starling’s direction every few minutes, wondering if he’s doing well, or if he’s lost his bet with Branson yet.

He sticks with Lord Grantham and Lady Mary for a while, smiling and gesturing with his hands as he speaks. Occasionally, Talbot will touch Starling’s back, or bump his arm as the group converses. It’s an inch more affection than British upper-class men are usually prone to, and every time it happens, Lord Grantham’s eyes flick between the two of them. At one point, Talbot says something that makes Starling laugh so hard that he grabs onto the other man to hold himself upright, and even presses his face against Talbot’s upper arm for a moment.

Concern flashes across Lord Grantham’s face. He glances at Mary, who gives him an almost imperceptible shrug in return.

_Lady Mary doesn’t think anything of it_ , Thomas says in his head, hoping that somehow the words reach Lord Grantham. _He just acts like a schoolboy sometimes, and it brings the schoolboy out in Talbot._

Thomas can have suspicions about them, but not Lord Grantham. If he thinks there was something other than a close friendship forged in war between Talbot and Starling, then, well, Starling would have to _leave_ , and that’s the last thing Thomas wants.

_Don’t worry about it, milord. He’s just a silly American._

Behind Thomas, Lady Grantham welcomes a new guest.

“Oh, _Philip_!” she says. “We didn’t think you were going to make it!”

Turning his head ever so slightly, Thomas catches sight of a familiar figure out of the corner of his eye. He knows that seeing him again has always been a possibility as long as he remains in service, but it had been so long. The Duke of Crowborough hadn’t attended any of the wedding parties held at Downton over the years. He didn’t even go to Lady Rose’s coming out ball in London, and the Prince of Wales had shown up to that.

“I wasn’t, initially, but then I had business in York, and I thought I’d make an appearance.” Philip says.

He sounds much the same, and Thomas discovers, when he and Lady Cora come fully into view, looks much the same as well. Thomas had often imagined Philip aging like an overripe banana, limp and covered in dark spots, but instead, only the hint of grey at his temples indicates that any time has passed at all. He’s just as handsome and charming as he was back in 1911, with sparkling eyes and an easy smile.

“And how is Irene?” Lady Grantham asks.

“The boys run her ragged,” says Philip, “but she insists that nothing brings her joy quite like motherhood.”

Lady Grantham laughs. “It is certainly a unique experience.”

So not only has Philip found himself a Duchess, but he’s produced children as well, an heir and a spare, at the very least.

Just like he always wanted.

“Stay right here,” says Lady Grantham, patting Philip’s arm, “and let me find Mary and Edith. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to see you.”

“Not half as thrilled as I am to see them!” Philip flashes Lady Cora a grin before she runs off to collect her daughters.

Molesley walks by, glasses of white wine balanced on the tray he carries with his left hand. Philip swipes one off the tray, then turns to face Thomas. They stare at each other for a full five seconds, before Philip raises his glass at him, a gesture of peace.

His heart sinks from his throat back down to where it belongs in his chest at the sight of it. Thomas nods, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. It’s been over a decade since Philip threw his letters in the fire, and to his surprise, Thomas finds that he actually isn’t that angry about it anymore. He’s suffered worse heartbreaks and endured more profound pain than anything Philip ever did to him in the time since. They don’t have to be enemies.

Thomas doesn’t need any more enemies.

Satisfied, Philip gives him a soft smile, then returns his attention to Lady Grantham, who heads back with Mary and Edith in tow.

 

For the next hour or so, Thomas gives little thought to Philip. He’s too busy mixing cocktails, fetching ice, and making sure every tray stays filled with drinks and refreshments. The party’s going well, and Thomas swells with pride that his first event as butler of Downton Abbey is a success.

Whenever he goes back to the kitchen, he gives Carson updates on what’s going on outside. Thomas suspects that Carson hides inside the house because he feels a bit embarrassed over losing his temper when he couldn’t pour the champagne at Edith’s wedding. More than once, he’s been tempted to make a snide comment about it, say that Downton doesn’t need Carson anymore, but he manages to hold his tongue.

The thing Thomas likes most about parties is that there are always interesting conversations to listen to. He’s given up on his resolution to stop eavesdropping so much, telling himself that, as butler, he needs to know what’s going on with the family more than ever. Besides, when you work in service, listening to conversations that you aren’t meant to hear is the closest thing you get to entertainment.

The central theme of these conversations is, as usual, the changing times:

The Lord of an ancient estate is on the verge of losing everything, and laments not modernizing like Lord Grantham did while he still had the chance. Lord Grantham’s advice boils down to “hand the problem over to your adult children.”

The Dowager Countess objects to some attempt to modernize the Village Hospital, and Dr. Clarkson is caught in the crossfire between her, Lady Cora, and Lady Isobel.

The latest fashion trend is either the yummiest thing to come out of London/Paris/New York/Hollywood/Wherever, or a sign of the oncoming apocalypse.

Older guests mourn the glories of the Victorian Era, just as their parents mourned the Georgian Era, and their grandparents mourned whatever came before that.

In contrast to all of this, Talbot and Branson appear to be over-eager for the future, to the point where Starling has to bring them back to reality when they tell Lady Isobel and Lord Merton that they hope to be able to expand into manufacturing by the end of the year.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he says. “We don’t have any prototypes, just designs. There are always a lot of kinks to work out between the drawing board and the assembly line.”

Branson nods. “That’s true, plus we have to find the right factory space, install the equipment, hire workers…”

“But you can’t fault us for being _excited_ , can you?” asks Talbot.

“Of course not!” says Isobel. “I’m excited just hearing about it!”

“Mm-hm, it’s all very exciting.” Starling says. He smiles, but his eyes seem distant.

 

As the party goes on, Thomas can’t help but notice how Starling becomes increasingly drained. His smile falters, his hands twitch, and he keeps shifting his weight on his feet. Every few minutes, he brings his fingers up to his mouth, the telltale sign of needing a cigarette, but each time he tries to step away from the party, he’s pulled back in by Branson, Talbot, Mary, and in one instance, the Dowager.

It happens when someone brings out a football, leading to a handful of the younger men kicking it around. Branson and Talbot join in, along with Lord Hexham and even Philip. The game is irregular for such a party, but the atmosphere is casual enough that no one openly objects. Thomas keeps an eye on it as he collects empty glasses and plates from the various tables, silently critiquing the players’ athletic abilities. They’re lucky that they’re not playing cricket, or else he might be tempted to show them a thing or two.

Starling watches in silence for a few moments, his expression unreadable, before he wanders over to the other side of the garden and lights up a cigarette. The urge to speak to him, to join him for another smoke break, rises within Thomas, but he pushes it away. He’s _working_.

Nearby, the Dowager, sitting at a table with Lady Rosamund, motions for Andy to bring his tray over. He does so, and Lady Violet selects an hor d’oeuvre before fixing him with a hard stare.

“You are _Andrew_ , correct?” she asks.

Andy swallows, then nods. “Yes, milady.”

“My granddaughter tells me that you have recently become engaged to Daisy Mason,” says the Dowager. “Is this true?”

“Yes, milady,” says Andrew. “I proposed on Valentine’s Day.”

Thomas feels sorry for him. Better men have crumbled under Violet Crawley’s gaze. However, he remembers how she wept at Daisy and William’s wedding, so he understands why she would want to interrogate him.

Rosamund smiles. “Congratulations, Andrew.”

“Thank you, milady.”

The Dowager narrows her eyes. “And is it true that you have given her an _opal_ engagement ring?”

“Opal?” says Rosamund, her smile turning into a frown. “Aren’t opals traditionally seen as bad luck?”

Trembling, Andrew looks back and forth between the two Ladies. “I, it was, I mean…” He looks down at his shoes. “It was Mr. Starling’s idea.”

Lady Rosamund and Lady Violet turn their heads to face Starling, who stands a few feet away. He doesn’t seem to notice at first, then gives a double-take when he spots them staring at him, and drops his cigarette.

“What?” he says, looking around in confusion. “What did I do?”

“You,” says the Dowager, her voice dripping with distaste, “had the idea to give Daisy Mason an opal engagement ring.”

Thomas pauses his collecting of empty glasses, uncertain if he should interfere.

“No, no, I did not.” Starling pats the top of his hair, which has started to resist the gallons of pomade holding it down. “I did not have that idea. I have had no ideas, at all, ever, in my life.”

“Mr. Starling,” says Lady Rosamund. “You’re not accusing Andrew of _lying_ , are you?”

“What? No, that’s not what I--” He stops, swallows, then crosses his arms and juts out his chin in defiance. “Listen, all I did was point out that the _less_ expensive shiny rock was actually _prettier_ than the _more_ expensive shiny rock. If you’re gonna spend big money on what is, I repeat, a _shiny rock_ , then you might as well get one that’s interesting to look at.”

Rosamund tilts her head to the side, as if considering the logic of this, while Andy deflates, happy to have the pressure off himself. The Dowager Countess, however, continues to stare daggers at Starling, who stares back with all he has.

After a full ten seconds of neither Starling nor the Dowager backing down, Thomas clears his throat.

“If you don’t my asking, sir,” he says, “why were _you_ in that jewelry store in the first place?”

Starling throws his hands in the air. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“Mr. Barrow brings up an excellent point, Mr. Starling,” says the Dowager, glancing at Thomas.

With a sigh, Starling hangs his head in attrition. “I pop into jewelry stores sometimes to look for jade beads.”

“Jade beads?” says Rosamund. “Why in the world you do _that_?”

“When I was sixteen, I sold my late mother’s jade beads to buy a ticket to Europe,” says Starling. “I dare say, I have never quite forgiven myself.”

“Nor should you,” says the Dowager before turning back to Andy. “Does Daisy _like_ this ring, at least?”

Andy nods, happily. “Yes, milady, she loves it.”

“Well that’s the important thing,” says Lady Rosamund.

 

Thomas takes the empty glasses and plates back to the kitchen, then returns to the garden with a clear tray to collect more. Near the table holding the giant sponge cake stands Lady Edith, Lady Mary, Lord Grantham, Starling, and the Duke of Crowborough, discussing university admissions.

“I rather admire the American Ivy League’s commitment to only selecting the best of the best,” says Philip, taking a sip of white wine. “There used to be separate entrance exams for each school, but Dr. Brigham of Princeton has created this scholastic aptitude test for all the applicants to take at once. It’s certain to set the standard across the country, maybe even worldwide.”

“I’m sure the students are happy about that,” says Edith. “Just one exam to take instead of, what, five?”

“Eight,” says Starling. “There are eight Ivy League schools.” He has his hands in his pockets, and looks at Philip with a frown.

“I don’t know how they pick between eight different universities,” says Lord Grantham. “Oxford or Cambridge was a difficult enough for me.”

Mary turns to Starling. “You said your sister works at Columbia, didn’t you? Is that Ivy League?”

“Yeah, it is. She’s a librarian.”

“Oh, Papa!” says Edith, smiling. “Didn’t Uncle Harold study at Columbia?”

“Perhaps,” says Lord Grantham. “You’ll have to ask your mother.”

Starling clears his throat. “You said Dr. Brigham? As in, the _eugenist_?”

“Yes, are you familiar with his work?” Philip asks.

“I skimmed his book,” says Starling. His frown deepens.

“You should give it a closer read!” Philip says. “I found it fascinating, myself. His research really sheds light on how the, let’s say, _less adept_ _races_ are holding the rest of us back.”

Still collecting glasses, Thomas pauses at the sound of knuckles cracking. He looks around, searching for the source of the awful _pop-pop-pop_ , and gulps when he finds it. Starling has taken his hands out of his pockets, and now clenches his trembling fists at his sides. As Philip continues to prattle on about Dr. Brigham’s book, Starling’s already pale hands turn deathly white from tension.

Thomas catches Mary’s eye. She furrows her brow at him, confused, then Thomas glances back to Starling’s hands, and her own gaze follows. Her eyes widen. She turns back to Philip, and takes a deep breath.

“Who exactly would you include in the _less adept races_ , Philip?” she asks.

Philip shrugs. “Oh, you know, Negroes, Italians, Jews, etcetera.”

Her mouth falling open, Edith takes a physical step back. Lord Grantham looks at Philip much like how Thomas imagines he must have looked when Philip declined to ask for Mary’s hand: disappointed, offended, and most of all, embarrassed.

Seeing the reactions of those standing at either side of him, Starling relaxes, even smiles a bit. Philip, however, is baffled.

“Why are you all looking at me like that?” he asks before taking the last sip of wine from his glass.

“I think when it comes to scientific research,” says Mary, “particularly research regarding the supposed superiority of one people over another, we have to ask, _what exactly are we looking for_? Are we looking for the truth, or are we looking for a way to confirm what we’ve _already been taught to believe_?”

“That’s exactly right, Mary,” says Edith. She puts a hand on her sister’s arm. “Now tell me, how is Anna and Bates’s new baby?”

“Baby?” says Starling, crossing his arms and tilting his head to the side. “What baby? There’s a baby?”

Mary begins telling Edith and Starling all about John Jr. Lord Grantham shoots Philip one more glower before wandering off in his wife’s direction. For a moment, Philip stands there, holding his empty wine glass and blinking as if he’s still not entirely sure what just happened. He glances at Mary, curls his lip, then turns to look directly at Thomas.

He gives Thomas a rather familiar look. It’s the same look Thomas saw in the early summer of 1911. Whenever someone, usually Mary, would say something stupid or obnoxious, Philip would give Thomas this _look_ , this look that said, _Can you believe this?_

It was the first bit of flirting they ever did.

What a thrill it had been to catch the eye of a duke! Once, Thomas coveted his gaze. Now, he shies away from it, turning to walk over to the wine table. His heart thumps in his ears, much like it did that summer, but Thomas isn’t quite sure of the reason. Is he excited? Angry? Embarrassed? When did he lose track of his own emotions?

Philip, of course, follows him.

“I’d like a refill,” he says, holding out his empty glass.

Thomas forces himself to smile and take it. “My pleasure, your grace.”

“I hear you’re _butler,_ now,” says Philip. He looks Thomas up and down, then smirks. “Congratulations, your ascension is complete.”

“Thank you, your grace.” Thomas says as he pours the wine.

“So many things have changed since I last came here,” Philip continues. “You’re butler, Lady Edith’s a marchioness, and a couple _drivers_ have weaseled their way into the family, along with whatever that _American_ is.”

As he pours the wine, Thomas catches sight of Master George running up to his mother. He holds a yellow flower in his hands. She smiles warmly, and kneels to his level. The Lady Mary that he and Philip mocked so many years ago never would have let her knees touch the grass, but she has since blossomed with marriage and motherhood. George tucks the flower behind his mother’s ear, and she kisses his cheek.

The wine glass full, Thomas sets the bottle down and looks back at Philip. “Here you are, your grace.”

Philip takes the glass and sips his wine. “There is _one_ thing that hasn’t changed, at least.”

“And what is that, sir?” Thomas asks.

Leaning in closer, a sly smile spreads across the Duke’s face. “Lady Mary’s still a _cunt_.”

Before Thomas can register what’s happening, Philip is on the ground, with blood gushing from his nose and dripping all over his white shirt. Thomas’s ears ring, his heart pounds, and his right hand hurts in a way that brings him straight back to the trenches, where he held his lighter up and prayed for deliverance.

He tries to flex his fingers, but something _pops_ , and white-hot agony shoots through them and into his palm. Crying out in pain, Thomas clutches his hand to his chest.

“BARROW.”

Thomas looks up to see Lord Grantham barreling towards him, followed by Talbot and a wide-eyed Dr. Clarkson. His face is red as a tomato as he grabs Thomas by the collar and shakes him.

“ _What the bloody hell happened_?” Grantham spits.

Glancing around the garden, Thomas struggles to find an answer. Talbot and Dr. Clarkson squat down on either side of Philip. They ask him something, but their voices are muffled somehow. Talbot pulls out a handkerchief and presses it to the Duke’s nose. The world spins, and Grantham’s grip on his jacket is the only thing keeping Thomas upright.

“He-- he--” Thomas chokes out.

A small crowd has gathered around them. Guests and servants alike stare at him in horror

“ _What_? What could he have _possibly_ done?” Grantham shakes him again. “This is the last straw, Barrow. After everything we have done for you--”

“ _He called Lady Mary a cunt_.”

Several people gasp. Grantham’s face turns from red to deathly white. He releases Thomas from his grip, letting him stumble back against the table. Thomas knocks over a few glasses to keep himself from falling. The pain in his hand still blazes like a roaring fire. Talbot drops the handkerchief and rises to his feet

“You called my wife a _what_?!” he shouts.

“He’s lying!” Philip says, crawling backwards away from Talbot. “Can’t you see that? I didn’t-- I wouldn’t-- I would _never_ \--”

“Don’t say another word,” says Grantham, trembling as he stares down at Philip. He whirls back on Thomas, his hands on his shoulders and his face close enough for their noses to touch. “Tell me. Tell me _exactly_ what he said.”

Thomas gulps. “He was talking about how much Downton had changed, and then he said that at least one thing hadn’t changed, that Lady Mary’s still a-- still a--”

“ _Nonononono_!” Philip cries, struggling to stand. “That is _not_ what I said!”

“Andy!” Grantham barks. He lets go of Thomas again. “Get Barrow to the Servants Hall.”

Pushing himself through the crowd, Andy takes Thomas by the arm. He pulls away from the scene, and they make their way across the garden in silence, save for the occasional grunts of pain from Thomas. He keeps his hand clutched to his chest, wincing every few seconds.

 

Mrs. Hughes is the first one to see them when they get to the Servants Hall. She covers her mouth in shock at the sight, then rushes over and starts to fuss.

“Oh, Thomas!” she says. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

“He hit the Duke of Crowborough,” says Andy.

“He did _what_?” Carson appears, his eyes bulging. “But _why_?”

“I don’t, um--” Andy swallows, glancing at Thomas. “He called Lady Mary something nasty.”

Daisy and Baxter come out of the kitchen and run up to them, then Anna, Bates, and Mrs. Patmore, and soon Thomas is surrounded by yet another crowd staring at him with worry. People keep talking, but their voices blur together. Thomas just stares into the middle distance, overwhelmed with shock at what he did.

Someone, Bates or probably Carson, shoves him into the office and tells him to stay there for now. The door closes, and Thomas slumps into a chair, alone. His eyes sting. He clamps them shut to keep the tears from flowing over, but it’s no use. They stream down his cheeks and drip off his chin.

All those years of plotting and scheming, of fighting tooth and nail for his place at Downton, have come to nothing. He’d had his slips, times when he should have been thrown out on his ear, yet he always managed to crawl his way back in. But this? There’s no coming back from this. For three lovely months, he enjoyed the view from the top of the ladder, only to throw himself into the abyss.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Yes?” he says, wiping off the tears from his face with his gloved hand.

The door opens, and Starling pokes his head in. “How’s your hand?”

“My what?”

“Your hand,” says Starling. He enters the room fully now, padding up to Thomas like he’s a nervous animal. “Punching someone in the face is a great way to break your hand. That’s why you gotta punch ‘em in the _throat_.”

Thomas makes a sort of choking sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob. More tears begin to fall, and he hides his face in the crook of his left elbow.

“I’ve fucked it up,” says Thomas, his voice thick. “I’ve fucked it all up.”

“Hey, hey,” says Starling. “It’s gonna be alright, just let me take a look at it, ok?”

He takes Thomas’s hand and cradles it in both of his own, tracing his thumbs across the palm. They’re warm and gentle, but not enough to be a comfort against the pain. Thomas peeks out at him from behind his arm. A few strands of hair have fallen in front of his eyes, and for the first time since this morning, he looks like himself. Starling tries to curl his fingers inward, but Thomas jerks and snatches his hand away.

“I’ll get you some ice.”

He’s gone for few moments, then returns with some cubes wrapped in a dishcloth from the kitchen. Starling carefully turns Thomas’s hand over and places the ice over his knuckles.

“That was amazing, by the way.” Starling says.

Thomas shakes his head and sniffs. “No, it wasn’t.”

“Sure it was,” says Starling with a grin. “Do you have any idea how much I wanted to hit that jackass? First, he kept calling me _Sterling_ , then he said all that eugenics shit--”

“I’m gonna be sacked.” Thomas pulls his arm away and looks up at Starling with wide, wet eyes. “I’ll get no reference, I’ll never work in service again, and I-- _I don’t know how to do anything else._ ”

“Why would they sack you? He deserved it. Besides, the Crawley’s loyalty to their servants is unparalleled.” says Starling. He cups Thomas’s cheek, his palm cool from the ice. “That was pretty much the first thing you ever said to me, remember?”

Thomas leans into Starling’s hand. “You don’t understand, this is _different_. He _outranks_ them.”

“Are you saying they don’t have a choice?” Starling asks, his brow furrowed. “But that-- that’s _bullshit_ , that’s not _fair_.”

“That’s just how it is,” says Thomas. He puts his hand over Starling’s on the ice cloth and adjusts it. “And now both of my bloody hands are ruined. What the hell am I going to do?”

“Come stay with me at the shop.” Starling shrugs, as if this is obvious. “We’ll figure something out, ok? I’ll take care of you.”

The words _I’ll take care of you_ hit Thomas like, well, a punch in the face. “You’ll what?”

Starling huffs and looks away. “Until your hand heals, I mean. Come stay with me, I’ll take care of you, and we’ll figure out what to do from there, alright? We’ll--”

“Make it work?” Thomas asks, the hint of a smile on his lips. The panic that set in when he first sat down begins to dissolve into something else, something hopeful. “What about Branson and Talbot? What if they don’t want me living over their shop?”

“Well, they can just fucking deal with it,” says Starling.

Thomas laughs. “You’ve lost your bet.”

“I lost it about two hours ago.” Starling says. “I cursed Branson out after he told me to stop flirting with you. He and Talbot can make fun me all they want when it’s just me and them, not when there are other people around.”

“What would they make fun of you for?”

Starling rolls his eyes and swallows. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know how much I like you.” The tops of Starling’s ears turn red.

Thomas blinks up at him, his nose is still stuffy, but the tears are gone. They _could_ make it work. They could be _together_. Thomas could kiss him goodnight _and_ goodmorning. He could kiss him _right now_.

“Seth?” says Thomas, sitting up in his seat.

“Yes, Mr. Barrow?” says Seth.

“ _Ahem_.”

Carson stands in the doorway. Starling steps back, nearly letting the ice cloth spill over into Thomas’s lap, but he catches it and holds it closed before that can happen. Thomas takes the cloth from him and sets it back onto his hand. The pain has dwindled, but spikes again when he tries to flex his fingers.

“You are requested upstairs.” Carson says, giving the two of them a hard look.

Thomas gulps and pushes himself to his feet. “Yes, sir.”

 

He follows Carson out of the room, with Starling at his side. They exchange glances as they ascend the stairs, but no one says a word. Thomas wishes they didn’t have to do this, that Lord Grantham could just sack him privately instead of humiliating him in front of everyone, but he suspects that nothing less will satisfy Philip. Still, the blow will be softened so long as Starling is there, so long as he isn’t alone.

When they reach the landing, Thomas wonders what he will do once his hand is healed. Despite what he said earlier, he does know how to do other things. He can fix clocks, and he remembers most of his medical training from the war. Maybe Seth can teach him about cars.

Carson leads them out to the Great Hall, where the family has gathered, along with Philip, Dr. Clarkson, and a handful of the other guests. Philip has his own ice cloth pressed to his face as he stands on the other side of the room listening intently to whatever Dr. Clarkson says. Lord Grantham stands in front of the staircase, staring hard at the glass of brandy in his hand while Edith puts both hands on his arm and pleads with him.

“Papa, he saved my life, remember?” Edith says. “He ran right through the flames and carried me to safety!”

“I do not need reminding, Edith,” says Lord Grantham. “My memory of that night is perfectly clear.”

Edith glances at Thomas as he enters the room, then looks away, anguished. A warm sort of fondness for her blooms in his chest. He tells himself that once he is sacked, he will thank her for defending him, and let her know he thinks highly of her. If this is to be his last day at Downton, Thomas will not let things go unsaid.

By the doorway, Mary clutches her husband’s elbow. Talbot trembles, clenching and unclenching his hands, but he doesn’t try to step away. Branson stands next to them with his arms crossed and his eyes fixed to the floor. Mary’s expression, however, doesn’t share her husband’s anger or her sister’s worry. She seems pensive, with her brow furrowed and her lips pursed.

Carson clears his throat. “Here he is, milord.”

Lord Grantham looks up at Thomas, and Thomas resists the urge to avoid his gaze. He keeps his head held high, even as Philip sneers at him across the room. A moment of silence passes before Lord Grantham speaks.

“This is what happened,” he says, his voice loud and clear to grab everyone’s attention. “Mr. Barrow _misheard_ his grace, the Duke of Crowborough.”

Philip smiles at this, even though others in the room grumble.

“However,” Lord Grantham continues, “ _all is forgiven_ , because if the Duke _had_ said what Barrow thought he said, he would deserve _much worse_ than a broken nose.”

Another wave of dizziness comes over Thomas, but Seth catches him and keeps him upright.

“ _What_?!” Philip says, pulling his cloth away to reveal is bruised and bloody face. “This is an outrage! Grantham, I’ll--”

“You’ll do _what_ , Crowborough?” asks Lord Grantham. “You’ll press charges? Announce to the whole world that you can’t take _one hit_?”

Philip gapes at him before pressing his ice cloth back to his nose. “I’m _leaving_ , and I am _never_ coming back. I’m going to let everyone know what an _utter madhouse_ this place is!”

“I’m afraid everyone already knows it’s a madhouse,” says Lady Violet. “I daresay that’s the appeal.”

“Mr. Carson, please have Mr. Stark bring the car over so that he can take the Duke to the train station,” says Lady Grantham.

Carson nods. “Very good, milady.”

He leaves to fetch Mr. Stark. Meanwhile, Philip pushes Dr. Clarkson out of the way and marches out the front door, muttering to himself. The room ignites with voices, both approving and objecting to Lord Grantham’s decision. Thomas shakes his head, half-expecting to wake himself up.

Starling squeezes his arm and grins at him. “See? I told you it would be ok!”

“I--” Thomas blinks at Starling before turning to Lord Grantham. “Thank you, milord. I don’t know how to express how truly grateful I am.”

“You’re very welcome, Barrow,” says Lord Grantham. “But under no circumstances is this to _ever_ happen again, do you understand?”

Thomas nods, giddy with relief. “Yes, sir, absolutely.”

“Good,” says Lord Grantham. He steps closer to Thomas and puts a hand on his shoulder. “There are only so many times I can save you, Barrow.”

Closing his eyes, Thomas drops his head. “Yes, sir, I know.”

With that, Lord Grantham walks away. Thomas breathes deeply, not sure what to do next, until Dr. Clarkson approaches him.

“Shall I take a look at your hand?” he asks.

Thomas holds it out, and Dr. Clarkson examines it, turning it over and running his thumbs across the back much like Starling did. As this happens, Thomas looks around for Starling, and spots him next to Branson, with whom he seems to be having a conversation entirely out of facial expressions and hand gestures. He turns back to Dr. Clarkson and winces as he tries to move his fingers.

“Well?” he asks.

“I don’t think anything’s broken,” says Dr. Clarkson, “but I’d like to take an x-ray, to be sure.”

“I’ll drive you!” says Branson, walking up to them. “I’m sure you don’t want to walk all the way to the hospital.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Branson, that’s very kind.” Dr. Clarkson says.

“Yes,” says Thomas. “Thank you.”

 

Branson leads them outside. Thomas and Dr. Clarkson climb into the back while Branson puts his key into the ignition. The last time Branson drove him anywhere, Thomas had been beaten and mugged at the fair. Dr. Clarkson was there as well. Why does he only seem to spend time with these people when something bad happens to him?

As Branson starts the car, Starling slides in next to him.

“Mind if I tag along?” He asks, looking over his shoulder at Thomas and the doctor. “I heard you got a new fluoroscope.”

“I don’t mind if Mr. Barrow doesn’t,” says Dr. Clarkson.

Thomas blinks at Starling, who arches an eyebrow in return, and realizes what’s going on. They need to talk, and it will best happen away from Downton. “No, I don’t mind at all.”

“Are you interested in radiology, Mr. Starling?” asks Clarkson.

“I just love machines, really.” Starling says with a smile. “I actually got ahold of a fluoroscope when I was a kid. I ended up giving myself a bunch of radiation burns, and Mother threw it in the Hudson river.”

“Oh, goodness,” says Clarkson, looking a little less enthusiastic about Starling taking a look at his own machine.

“How did you get ahold of one as a _kid_?” asks Branson as he adjusts the gear.

“That part’s not important,” Starling says. “Don’t worry, Doc. I’ll be sure to leave your fluoroscope intact.”

 

When they reach the Village Hospital, Branson parks under a shady tree and tells them he’ll be waiting in the Grantham Arms. Starling follows Thomas and Dr. Clarkson into the building and down the halls. He and Dr. Clarkson discuss different sorts of x-ray machines, leaving Thomas feeling a bit out of the loop. As a medic, he was trained mostly in first aid and, later, convalescence. He never handled such complicated equipment.

The fluoroscope is kept in an examination room in the eastern wing. Taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeve, Thomas lays his right hand flat on a table, next to a metal box adorned with various dials and buttons. Attached to the box with a long arm is a flat, rectangular screen, which Dr. Clarkson places over Thomas’s hand. He then presses a few of the buttons on the box. The box begins to hum, and the screen lights up to reveal the inner workings of Thomas’s hand.

Thomas isn’t squeamish, and had an x-ray on his other hand during the war, but the sight of his own bones is a startling one.

“Isn’t that _incredible_?” says Dr. Clarkson. “The machine, of course, not your injury.”

“Makes you want to write love letters to Madame Curie,” says Starling, leaning forward to get a closer look at the screen.

“Is anything broken or not?” Thomas asks.

Dr. Clarkson instructs him to move his hand into various positions, and he obeys, wincing with every adjustment. Starling puts a hand on his back after a particularly painful adjustment, rubbing back and forth between his shoulder blades. His presence is a comfort, not only because he keeps the mood light, but because Thomas suspects that if he weren’t here, Clarkson would ask about his _incident_ last year.

Both he and Dr. Clarkson eye Starling when Thomas turns his hand over, revealing the pink scar on his wrist. No one says a word about it, and they continue with the examination as if it isn’t there.

“It appears you have a mild case of Boxer’s Knuckle,” says Dr. Clarkson as he turns the machine off and pulls the screen away. “You’ll need a splint, a compression bandage, as well as something for the pain.”

“Next time, punch ‘em in the _throat_ ,” says Starling.

“There’s not going to be a next time,” mutters Thomas.

Dr. Clarkson nods. “I certainly hope not, although I must admit that if I had heard what the Duke said, I’d have done the same thing.”

“He got off way too easy, if you ask me.” Starling says.

“The Duke will be riding the train back to London with his nose looking like an aubergine,” says Dr. Clarkson. “I believe that’s punishment enough. Only, I just...”

“What?” asks Thomas.

“I don’t understand why he said it to _you_ , is all,” says Dr. Clarkson, frowning.

Thomas’s face grows hot as he tries to think of an explanation, but thankfully Starling steps in.

“People like that think they can say anything to anybody,” he says.

 

After a few injections of something to ease the pain, Dr. Clarkson puts him into a splint that keeps his first two fingers straight and the rest of wrist immobile. Only the ring and little fingers can move, although Dr. Clarkson recommends against it. A sling holds his right arm still.

“It’s not so bad,” says Dr. Clarkson as they finish up. “Not like being shot, anyway.”

Starling, who holds Thomas’s jacket, whips his head to look at Thomas. “You were _shot_?”

Thomas holds up his left hand. “Yes, in the war.”

As they step outside the hospital leaving Dr. Clarkson behind, Thomas contemplates his gloved hand for a moment, then turns to face Starling, taking a deep breath.

“One night, I took my lighter, held it above the edge of the trench, and prayed for deliverance. After three seconds, it came. Longest three seconds of my life,” Thomas says. He stares at Starling and swallows. “I’ve never told anyone that before, that I got shot on purpose. I know it was cowardly, but--”

“It wasn’t cowardly,” says Starling, reaching out to take the hand in question. “You just wanted to get home. I’d have done the same if I’d had the option.”

Thomas frowns. “Weren’t you in the trenches?”

“Barley,” he says with a shrug. “I spent most of my time fixing cars and radios, occasionally translating German broadcasts. Didn’t see much actual combat, which I should probably be grateful for.”

Glancing around for any spectators, Thomas squeezes Starling’s hand and steps in closer. “You’re disappointed.”

“That I didn’t experience most of the horrors of war?” Starling says, cocking his head to the side. “Not really.”

“No, you’re disappointed that I wasn’t sacked,” says Thomas, “that I won’t be coming to stay with you.”

Starling’s shoulders deflate as he turns away from Thomas and rubs his eyes. “Jeez, it’s not like I wanted you to lose your job. I know it’s important to you.”

“I know that.” Thomas comes up behind him and puts his free hand on his shoulder.

With a sigh, Starling leans back against him. “I guess I was just looking forward to having you to myself for a while.”

“I understand.” The urge to kiss Seth’s temple, wrap his good arm around him, and hold him tight rises like a wave about to crash on the shore. Instead, he whispers in his ear, “Let’s talk in the car for bit, shall we?”

Seth grins, taking his hand and leading them to the car. With enough cover from the foliage, they should be safe from any onlookers unless they specifically come up to the car, but Thomas doubts that they will.

 

They slide into the back, and Seth sits sideways, curling one leg underneath him, while stretching the other one out, much like he did when they had fish and chips in York. That day feels so distant, like it was in another lifetime, even though it was only a few months ago.

Seth rests the side of his head against the back of the car. “Thank you for telling me that. About your hand, I mean.”

“Well, I had to tell you something,” says Thomas, tapping Seth’s shoe with his own. “After what you told me.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Seth says, looking down and scratching the back of his head. “I don’t know why I just… blurted that out. Something about you makes me want to tell you things.”

“I’d like to learn them,” says Thomas.

Seth looks up at him from behind the fringe that has escaped the pomade. “You won’t like everything you hear.”

“You won’t like everything you hear about me, either,” Thomas says, brushing some of the hair out of Seth’s eyes.

Smiling, Seth ducks his head and starts pulling at his own shirt collar. “I’ve never been shot, but I _have_ been stabbed.”

Thomas jerks backward. “You’ve been _stabbed_?”

“Yep, with a compass.” He pulls his shirt open to reveal an expanse of pale skin, marred only by a dot of a scar underneath the right collarbone.

After some hesitation, Thomas brings his fingers up to the scar, and relishes in the warmth and smoothness of his skin. “What do you mean, a _compass_?”

“You know, the kind you draw circles with?” says Seth. He laughs. “Reform school geometry was pretty rough.”

“What’s reform school?” Thomas asks as he continues to rub his fingers along Seth’s collarbone.

“It’s where they send juvenile offenders in America,” says Seth. He leans in and rests his forehead against Thomas’s temple. “You call ‘em borstals, I think.”

Thomas cracks a smile. “Why in the world were you sent _there_?”

“I stole a fluoroscope, Mr. Barrow!” Seth snaps his fingers twice. “Keep up!”

“It’s Thomas.”

Seth leans back, blinking. “What?”

“My name,” says Thomas. “You could call me that, if y’like, when we’re alone.”

A slow smile spreads across Seth’s face. “Thomas. _Thomas_.”

“Yes?” Thomas laughs.

“Just testing out how it sounds,” says Seth, reaching up to caress the length of his jaw and spreading sparks across his skin. “ _Thomas_.”

It sounds like a prayer, like an incantation. He says it like it’s beautiful, like _Thomas_ is beautiful. He says it like Thomas-the-man is what gave Thomas-the-name all of its meaning and significance.

“Seth,” Thomas says, trying to give the name just as much weight, but he isn’t sure how. It comes out of him in one breath. He doesn’t even have to close his mouth to say it. One exhale, and there it is, his name. “ _Seth_.”

He wants to kiss him so terribly, but this isn’t like _that_ morning, where time slowed to a trickle just so they could have something sweet and all their own. Thomas must go back to work soon. Branson will come knocking, wondering what’s taking so long.

“When can I see you again?” Thomas asks, sliding his hand around the back of Seth’s neck and pulling him close.

Seth sighs, and Thomas can taste his breath. “I don’t know. I have to go to London tomorrow, and I might be there a while.”

“What? Why?”

“I wish I could tell you, but the Passport Control Office is being pretty vague, as usual.”

Thomas closes his eyes and grimaces in frustration. “Do you know when you’ll be back, at least?”

“It depends on a lot of factors,” says Seth. He lifts his hand from Thomas’s jaw to his cheekbone. “It’s complicated. It’s… you know when I said you won’t like everything you hear?”

Thomas nods, frowning.

“This is one of them.” Seth says, “And I’m-- I’m not ready to tell you yet, as much as I’d like to.”

“I don’t understand,” says Thomas. He runs his fingers through Seth’s hair at the back of his neck.

“I know, Thomas, and I’m sorry.” Seth cups his jaw with both his hands. “If I have to guess, I’d say around mid-May?”

Thomas lets go of the back of Seth’s head to pull his hands away from his face. “Mid-May? But that’s ages.”

“I’ll write, how about that?” Seth holds onto Thomas’s hand. “Hell, I’ll call. Whatever you want, ok? I want to make this work.”

“There’s that phrase again,” says Thomas, looking off to the side.

Seth pulls his hands away and sets them in his lap, staring down at them. “Is that not what you want?”

Opening his mouth to answer, Thomas finds he doesn’t know what to say. He wants to be butler of Downton Abbey, and when that looked like it wasn’t going to be an option, he was just about ready to bloody _elope_ with this man he hardly knows. Now he isn’t going to be sacked, and his initial assessment of the situation still rings true: he cannot have his job and this, whatever _this_ is.

“I have to think about it,” says Thomas.

“Ok,” says Seth, nodding. “But, Thomas?”

“Yes?”

“When you’re done thinking about it, could you give me a straight answer?” he asks, scratching the back of his head. “Because you’ve been leaving me pretty confused lately.”

Thomas blinks. “What? I have?”

Laughing, Seth nods. “I mean, first you don’t want anything, then you want it _quick, quiet, and never again_ , but in my experience, _quick, quiet, and never again_ doesn’t involve kissing.”

“Oh!” Thomas covers his mouth to muffle his laughter. “No, I suppose it doesn’t, does it?”

“And then you kissed me goodnight at _dawn_ , which was a whole ‘nother level of confusing.” Seth holds up his hands as if in defeat. “Don’t get me wrong, it was a good kiss, very romantic, but I was under the impression romance wasn’t really what you wanted.”

“It is,” says Thomas before he can stop himself. “It is what I want, I’m just not sure if I can have it _and_ the job, and the job is--”

“Everything, I know.” Seth shifts in closer and traces Thomas’s brow with his fingertips. “In case you decide you can’t have both, can I kiss you goodbye, Thomas?”

Thomas licks his lip and nods. “Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, please.”

Placing both hands on the side of his neck, Seth kisses the left corner of his mouth first, then the right, and when he comes in for the middle, Thomas is eager to taste him. He slips his free hand under the back of Seth’s jacket and pulls him closer as he licks into him. Seth smiles, and pulls away to nip at his bottom lip, before kissing him deeper.

Every swipe of Seth’s tongue, every press of his fingers, has Thomas’s head spinning and his heart pounding. Thomas whines when Seth pulls off of his mouth to leave a trail of kisses across his jaw and up to his earlobe. He nibbles at it, and Thomas’s whine turns into a sound he has to bury his face into Seth’s neck to muffle.

He then takes the opportunity to lick and suck at Seth’s collarbone, his shirt already unbuttoned to show him his scar. Thomas wants to mark him, make him remember when he goes to London that there is someone waiting for him back in Yorkshire. He grazes his teeth against his collarbone, then dips his tongue into the hollow of his throat, making Seth cry out.

Seth pulls Thomas’s head back with a grin. “I know I’m delicious, but unless you want to defile this back seat completely, you gotta stop taking bites.”

Thomas grumbles, but gives in when Seth starts giving him sweet little pecks on the mouth. He wraps his arms around Thomas’s neck and pulls himself sideways into his lap, so his legs stretch across the seat beside them. Thomas’s erection presses into Seth’s thigh, and thinks that defiling this back seat wouldn’t be so terrible. He smooths his hand down Seth’s back and cups his ass, giving it a squeeze. Seth responds by kissing him so soft and so deep, that Thomas wonders if this is a dream.

“Alright, I think that should last you until I get back,” Seth says, slipping off of Thomas’s lap.

“What?” Thomas says, reaching for him to come back, finding it impossible with only one arm. “No, c’mon, love, just a little while longer.”

Seth grins at him while he takes Thomas’s jacket and folds it over his arm. “Just consider what we could do in the back of this car while you’re thinking about what you want.”

“You _bastard_!” Thomas laughs as Seth steps out of the car.

Seth closes the door behind him, then checks his reflection in the window. He’s not as much of a mess as he could’ve been, not like he was on Valentine’s, but he still has to situate Thomas’s jacket over his front.

“I’ll tell Branson to give you a minute, ok?” Seth says, tapping on the window. “Goodbye, Thomas. I’ll see you in May.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Thomas. He looks up at Seth and smiles. “I like you, too, just so you know. A lot.”

Seth kisses the tips of his first two fingers, then presses them against the glass. Thomas reaches to meet them with own, and they each hold them there for a moment before Seth spins around and walks away.

Thomas watches him for a bit, hand on his chest, listening to his racing heartbeat. He’s never felt such elation. All his life, when he thought of the phrase ‘falling in love,’ he pictured someone entering a body of water in one way or another. Falling for Philip was living into a pristine swimming pool. With Edward, it was like slipping into a warm bath. Jimmy was swinging from a rope and dropping into a lake in summertime.

The water, he realizes now, was the love, not the falling.

Falling for Seth Starling is jumping off a cliff into the sea. He hasn’t actually hit the water yet, and isn’t sure what will happen when he does. Will the waves smash him against the rocks? Will he be pulled into the briny depths and drown?

Will he develop _gills_?

But there’s nothing he can do about it now. He has stepped off the edge.

Thomas Barrow is _falling_.

 

After about five minutes of stewing in the car with his forehead resting against the front seat, the sound of Branson opening the driver’s side door startles him back into reality.

He throws a glance back at Thomas as he slides in. “Good snog, I take it?”

“Yes,” says Thomas.

The drive home is blessedly silent, and Thomas thanks Branson for it in his mind. He trusts that, if Seth really did give him an earful for his flirting comment before, he won’t say anything about what just happened in his car to get either of them into trouble. Perhaps Branson thinks Thomas deserves a good snog after decking the Duke of Crowborough.

There’s great fuss when Thomas enters the Servants Hall, and everyone sees him in his splint and sling. Mrs. Hughes sits him at the head of the table (which is very much against protocol because Carson is still here), while Daisy and Mrs. Patmore ply him with tea and leftover treats from the party.

Andy and Baxter fill him in on what happened after he left for the hospital. Many of the guests praised Lord Grantham’s handling of the situation, and one even asked how he managed to inspire such devotion in his servants.

“And Lord Grantham said, ‘If you wish to have devoted servants, you must be a devoted master.’” Andy says, doing a poor imitation of Lord Grantham’s particular inflection.

Thomas smiles as he dips a biscuit into his tea. “He’s not wrong, is he? He _is_ a devoted master. Paid for Mrs. Patmore’s eye surgery, helped Anna and Bates with, well, _everything_. Where else are we going to find an employer like that?”

“You are correct, Mr. Barrow,” says Carson as he enters the room. He arches a bushy eyebrow at Thomas’s sling. “How long did Dr. Clarkson say you need to recover from your injury? And where is your jacket?”

Thomas drops his biscuit without taking a bite. “Oh, er, must’ve left it at the hospital. He said my hand will need about two-ish weeks to heal. No broken bones, just some damage to one of my ligaments.”

“Well, until your ligament is back in working order, I suppose we can hire Mr. Molesley to serve dinner.” Carson says, pursing his lips. “Andrew, do you think you’ll be able to serve luncheon on your own? I will do what I can to help you, of course.”

Andy nods. “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

“Very good.” Carson turns back to Thomas with a dark look. “Mr. Barrow, when you are ready, there is a private matter about which I’d like to discuss with you in the office.”

Thomas gulps, and his stomach twists as he remembers that just an hour or so ago, Carson saw him and Seth, together, in that very office. “Yes, sir.”

He finishes his tea just as the bells on the wall behind him start to ring. Thanking Daisy and Mrs. Patmore for the treats, Thomas rises from his chair to meet Mr. Carson in the office. He puts on the most neutral expression he can muster as he makes his way down the corridor, and turns the knob to open the office door. It’s an awkward task to do with his left hand, but not as awkward as he suspects this talk will be.

Carson sits at their desk, hunched over as if the weight of all the responsibility he has carried for years on his shoulders is finally taking its toll. Thomas closes the door, and sits down in the chair across from him. He tells himself this has some symbolic power. If they both sit, they are equals, and Thomas can’t be in trouble.

Thomas is wrong.

“You told me you turned him _down_ ,” Carson spits, his lips curled over his teeth like an angry dog.

“I did,” says Thomas. “I did turn him down.”

It’s true, but it feels like a lie. Thomas takes a deep breath to stay calm. He’s good at telling lies. He can tell this one, too.

“He did not look like a _man rebuffed_ when I saw him in here with you today,” says Carson.

Thomas swallows. “He was just-- comforting me, alright? I thought I was going to be sacked and I was-- I was--”

“You were _what_ , Barrow?” Carson’s eyes narrow.

“I was _crying_.” Thomas says, sagging in his chair. “I was _crying_ , because I had come so far, and I thought I had completely ruined everything. He was just trying to make me feel better.”

Carson leans back and regards him critically. “ _Comforting_ you, eh? Trying to make you _feel better_?”

“It wasn’t-- It wasn’t like _that_ ,” says Thomas, sitting up again. “It was anything untoward or inappropriate or the like. He gave me some ice for my hand, and offered to let me stay with him in York until I found another job. He’s my _friend_. I’m allowed to have friends, aren’t I?”

With a sigh, Carson and his anger deflates. “Yes, Mr. Barrow, you’re allowed to have friends.”

“Good to know,” says Thomas.

“ _But_ , you must be careful of the sort of friendships you cultivate,” Carson continues, “consider the kind of _influence_ people can be. I think we can all agree that Sarah O’Brien was a _negative_ influence.”

Thomas opens his mouth, then shuts it, not sure what to say. He hasn’t thought of O’Brien as someone who had been his friend in years, but… she had been. She had been his only friend for a long time, and then she nearly destroyed him, all for not giving her nephew a leg-up for a job he didn’t even want. In his most secret moments, Thomas can admit to himself that it wasn’t just that he didn’t think Alfred had deserved the job he himself had worked so hard for. He had been jealous of Alfred, had felt like he had been replaced. O’Brien had been his and only his for so long, and then one day she wasn’t anymore.

He grips his free hand tight around the arm of his chair at the thought of her. He hopes she gets trampled to death by Elephants in Bombay.

“Some good influences, I’m happy to say, are Andrew and Miss Baxter,” says Carson.

Thomas nods. He hasn’t spent much time with Baxter lately, but he does like her. He tried to turn her into his personal spy when she first came to Downton, but she wouldn’t bend to his will. She’d told Lady Grantham about her past herself before she let Thomas blackmail her. Yet, even after all that, she still saved him.

“So, you don’t, er, you don’t think Mr. Starling is a good influence?” Thomas asks. He bites his lip as his eyes well up. “What, with his doin’ repairs for free and bringing everyone doughnuts? You think he’s bad, when he helped Andy pick out his engagement ring, when he brought Branson home safe when he was three sheets to the wind on Valentine’s? When he saved Mr. Talbot’s _life_? Sure, he’s odd, but--”

“He’s _queer_ , Thomas,” says Carson.

“ _I’m_ queer,” says Thomas.

The word comes out of his mouth like a curse, a swear, a _hex_ , a forbidden truth never to be said out loud. He’s always described himself as _different_ , but rarely puts a word to what that difference is. _Homosexual_ is what he uses when pressed, but he’s never liked it. It’s too clinical, like the Latin name for a disease, which he supposes it is.

Carson reaches out his hand and lays it open on the desk between them. “I know, Thomas. I know that you are, and I know that it does not, inherently, make you _foul_. However, _acting_ on this, this _inclination_ is against the law. Mr. Starling may be in a situation that allows him to feel he can _risk_ breaking that law, and I fear that he will influence you into thinking that you can take that risk as well.”

“Oh,” Thomas says. He swallows and wipes his eyes. “I see.”

“Lord Grantham has shown you incredible mercy today,” says Carson. “I beg you not to squander it.”

“I won’t, sir.” Thomas says. “May I be dismissed, Mr. Carson?”

Carson nods, and Thomas leaves without another word.

 

He heads straight for his bedroom, locking the door behind him. There are few personal artifacts that decorate the room. There’s his shaving kit next to the porcelain washbowl. In a small frame over his dresser hang his 1914 Star, British War Medal, and Victory Medal. Underneath it lies a Playbill for _The Wildflower_ , a musical he saw in New York, the ticket stub sticking out from the pages. Next to that is the invitation to Lady Edith’s wedding. He’d been thinking of getting it framed, like his war medals.

Thomas pats his side for his cigarettes, then sighs when he realizes that they, along with his silver lighter, are in his jacket, which is with Starling. He plops down on his bed, making it creek, and pulls open the drawer of his nightstand where he keeps the silly little Valentine Starling sent him. He takes it out and lays it open on the covers, tracing his fingers over the purple star that Starling left in lieu of his name.

Tears stain the card as he looks over it. The two pigeons huddled together at 3:15 have no idea how terribly, terribly unfair life is. Thomas can wait fifteen minutes or fifteen centuries for someone to love, and it still won’t guarantee his happiness.

He must wait, at the very least, until mid-May.

Thomas lies back against his pillow and touches his fingers to his mouth. He still tingles from those kisses in the car, aches from the need to touch Seth again.

_Come back_ , he thinks to himself as he covers his eyes in the crook of his elbow. _Come back_. _Give me my heart back. Give me my bloody cigarettes back. Don’t make me wait a month and a half to see you again. Come back, my love, come back._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit about the history discussed in this chapter: Dr. Carl Brigham, and his 1923 book 'A Study of American Intelligence,' were real. The admissions test he made? You guessed it! The SATs.
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr! I'm chambergambit there too.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starling goes to London. He and Thomas exchange letters.

That night, when the Servants Hall is empty, and everyone has gone to sleep, Thomas sits up in his bed, trying to write using only the last two fingers of his right hand. It’s slightly more legible than what he was able to do with his left hand, but still unacceptable for letter-writing. He closes his notebook, caps his pen, and sets them both on his nightstand before slumping back onto his pillows and letting out a sigh of frustration.

There’s a knock at the door.

Thomas sits up. “Yes? Come in?”

The door opens to reveal Henry Talbot, wearing green striped pajamas and a midnight-blue robe with matching slippers. He steps into the room, glancing around as if Thomas’s meager quarters were something new and exciting. They might be for Talbot, Thomas realizes. He can’t remember the last time Talbot was down here at all.

“I haven’t woken you, have I, Barrow?” Talbot asks, flashing Thomas a smile.

“No, sir, not at all.” Thomas says, He indicates the pen and notebook on his nightstand. “I was just trying to see what my hand can still do while it’s in recovery. It’s not much, I’m afraid.”

“Well, you’re welcome to use the typewriter in the estate manager’s office for your correspondence.” Talbot says. “It looks complicated, but it’s simple enough once you’ve got the gist of it.”

Thomas forces himself to smile, not sure if the typewriter will be the best option. “Thank you, sir. Is there anything I can help you with right now?”

“Ah, yes, the reason I’m here!” Talbot holds up a finger as if to remind himself. “I just received a call from Starling. He leaves for London tomorrow night, and says he has your jacket and lighter.”

“And my cigarettes,” says Thomas.

Talbot cringes. “He says he’s smoked the cigarettes, I’m afraid. However, he was wondering if he’d be able to keep the lighter, just while he’s away. He’ll happily send the jacket back with me. Says it’s too big for him.”

The thought of Seth drowning in his livery jacket makes Thomas smile. “Alright, he can keep the lighter, but I’d like something of his in return. I had that lighter through the war, so he knows how important it is. I’d like something of equal importance.”

“Wonderful,” says Talbot with a grin. “I’ll let him know in the morning. Is there anything else you’d like me to tell him?”

Thomas pauses. What can he say? What can he say to _Talbot_? “Just, tell him to come back safe.”

“Oh, I’m sure he will.” Talbot says as he approaches the door. “He’s going to London, not Minsk.”

“What happened in Mi--”

“G’night, Barrow!” With that, Talbot closes the door.

Thomas collapses back on his pillows. There is so very little he knows about Seth Starling. Every piece of information feels like raindrops cupped in his hand during a storm. He sits back up to turn off the lamp on the other side of his bed. In the darkness, Thomas imagines Seth in his own room in York.

 This imaginary Seth wears Thomas’s livery jacket around his shoulders. He doesn’t quite drown in it like Thomas first pictured. Now it’s _comfortingly_ large, with the sleeves falling to his thumbs and the lapel framing his ears. Seth flicks the silver lighter on and off, illuminating his room piled with books and schematics, then plunging it into darkness. Every time he flicks it on, he says _Thomas_ to himself, like spell, like a prayer.

 

 

The next morning comes new troubles: dressing and shaving one-handed. He’s had to deal with this before, after his left hand was injured, but it was much easier when the hand he could work with was his dominant one. Now his right hand is almost immobile, and his left lacks the dexterity it could have had if it weren’t already injured.

Shaving with his left hand leaves him with three cuts and the entire section underneath his chin untouched. He’s not going to risk slitting his own throat at this point.

Dressing himself is less perilous, but still takes twice as long as usual. By the time he must tie his tie, he can hear the other servants eating their breakfast. Thomas looks himself in the mirror, grumbles, and decides that the best course of action is to ask for help. He sets his right arm in its sling, and steps out to join the rest of the servants at the breakfast table.

 

 

“Oh, _mercy_ , Thomas, what have y’done?” asks Daisy when he comes into the room, covering her mouth with both hands.

She sits at the table with Andy, Mrs. Patmore, and Mrs. Hughes on one side, and Baxter, Bates, and Anna, feeding John Jr with a bottle, on the other side.

“I had a bit of trouble shaving,” he says, holding up his free hand to the nicks on his cheek. “And tying my tie.”

“I’ll help you with your tie, Mr. Barrow,” says Andy as he pulls out from his seat next to Daisy. “But, I don’t think I know how to shave someone else.”

“It seems I’ll have to go to the barber in the village,” says Thomas. He smiles at Andy when he steps up to him and takes both ends of his tie.

“That won’t be necessary,” says Bates. “His Lordship has instructed me to shave you, if you had any difficulties on your own.”

Thomas blinks at him. “His Lordship? Really? Well, ah, I suppose we cannot deny his Lordship’s wishes, if that’s the case.”

“Should I leave the tie how it is for now, then?” asks Andy.

Thomas nods. “Yes, let’s leave the shaving and tying until after breakfast, shall we?”

As he sits down at the head of the table, Thomas thanks God that Carson isn’t here to see him in this state. He’d understand, of course, but he’d give Thomas one of those hard, disapproving stares that told him his injured hand reflected poorly on all of the servants, and thus upon the family. This particular hand injury must be a subject of great internal debate to poor old Carson.

Thomas injured himself by punching a _Duke_ in front of _everyone_ at a _party_.

Thomas injured himself because he was _defending Lady Mary’s honor_.

It seems, at the very least to Lord Grantham, that upholding the family’s honor outweighs causing the family any embarrassment, but Thomas isn’t sure if Carson feels the same. There’s still the possibility that Carson doesn’t believe Thomas’s side of the story, and is simply deferring to Lord Grantham’s judgement. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Breakfast conversation mostly consists of the various tasks that must be done for the day, excitement for the upcoming Easter festivities, and the Coal Miner Situation.

**_NOT A PENNY OFF THE PAY, NOT AN HOUR OFF THE DAY!_** is the headline on Bates’s newspaper.

Anna holds John Jr against her shoulder and begins to pat him as she sneaks at look at her husband’s paper. “Do you think there’s gonna be a strike?”

“They’ll have to, if owners refuse to negotiate,” says Bates, turning the page.

“Mr. Mason says a strike of just coal miners won’t do much,” says Daisy, “because we’re getting so much free coal from Germany for reparations. It’ll have to be a _general strike_ to do any good.”

Mrs. Patmore rolls her eyes as she helps herself to another piece of toast. “What does Mr. Mason know about strikin’, general or otherwise?”

“Oh, I think Mr. Mason knows a little about everything,” says Andy, taking Daisy’s hand. “He’s very wise, if you ask me.”

“Wise he may be,” says Mrs. Hughes. “I don’t think a general strike will do much good, either. They’ve got that, what’s it called? You know, them volunteers to keep everythin’ runnin’ in case of a strike like that.”

Bates turns a page and clears his throat. “The Organization for the Maintenance of Supplies.”

“Right, _them_ ,” says Mrs. Hughes. “If they do their job and keep the wheels turnin’ while everyone’s on strike, what power do the strikers have?”

Thomas contemplates this as he sips his tea. “Well, if they’re volunteers, that means they ain’t paid for their work, are they? If the strike goes long enough, I say the volunteers will join the picketers themselves.”

“Don’t say that, Mr. Barrow!” says Mrs. Patmore, clutching her apron. “That sounds like we’ll have a communist revolution on our hands.”

“Not _our_ hands, Mrs. Patmore,” says Thomas with a smile. “The _government’s_ hands. I suspect that no matter what happens with the miners or strikers, life will go on as usual at Downton.”

 

 

31/3/1926

Thomas,

Thanks for letting me keep your lighter while I’m away. I wanted to keep your jacket as well, but it’s much too big for me, and outclasses everything else I wear. I’ve already smoked all of your cigarettes, so I left a fresh pack and a box of matches in the pocket. Talbot said that in exchange for the lighter, I need to give you “something of equal significance,” so here’s a ring my mother gave me when I was 13 and about to spend the next year at reform school. It, like your jacket, is too big for me (unless I wear it on my thumb, but I don’t like the look of that, something about a ring on a thumb is unsettling). It was the first time I would be away from my family for any significant amount of time, so my mother had the ring engraved with something to keep my mind at ease: גם זה יעבור or “this too shall pass.” I usually keep it in my pocket and fiddle with it when I need something to do with my hands. I hope I don’t sound too soppy, but—your lighter will bring me home when I need to come back to you, and my ring will remind you that our time apart will come to an end, and we’ll be together again soon. I’ll write you a longer letter as soon as I’m settled in London and I know what the fuck I’m doing here!

(star)

 

 

2/4/1926

Thomas,

Turns out, it wasn’t Passport Control that wanted me, but the Home Office. The work they’re having me do, while still ethically dubious, is less ideologically uncomfortable. I got a temporary position at the British Broadcasting Company, and a one-room flat near Piccadilly. It’s smaller than my place above the shop, but that’s ok. I thrive in confined spaces! Mary actually suggested that I stay in the Crawley’s London house, but I had to politely refuse. There’s no way I could live in one big house all by myself. I’d go crazy! Crazier than usual, at least

Besides my work at BBC, I’ve also got a mission from Branson and Talbot Motors—apparently there’s a name dispute with another car company called Clement-Talbot, and I’ve got to resolve it. Best case scenario is that we’re bought out by CT’s parent company, and become a York-based branch. I wouldn’t call myself a much of a negotiator, but it’s not too hard to get people to do what you want. Just talk fast, act like it was their idea, and say they’re so smart for coming up with it. Works about 75% of the time. If I can’t make it work, Branson and Talbot may have to come to London to talk to the CT people themselves. Maybe they can bring you with them? Only if you’d like to visit, of course.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve never liked London. People are always shocked when I say that, but it’s true. It’s got a nervous energy to it, like everyone thinks everyone else is doing something wrong, but they’re all too polite to say anything. All cities have an energy, I think. Or a color. London’s a yellow ochre. Berlin’s a moss green. Vienna is gold. York is lilac. I miss York already. It had a calming effect on me.

Still, I plan to make the best of it. This weekend I’m going to do some sight-seeing, and I’ve bought tickets to a play called Rossum’s Universal Robots.

If your hand is well enough, please write to me? Give me suggestions of what to do in London, let me in all the Downton Abbey gossip, or just… tell me how you are, what you’ve been thinking about. I’ve mostly been thinking about you.

(star)

 

 

April 5th, 1926

Dear Seth,

While my hand is not yet well enough for writing, Mr. Talbot has allowed me to use his typewriter. Have you ever used one? It is an odd machine. The letters are not in alphabetical order. One must be very careful not to make mistakes. This is my third draft!

London is much more interesting than Downton. I agree that cities have energies, but not colors. That makes no sense to me.

Did you like the play? What is a Robot?

Please write back ASAP.

Yours,

Thomas.

 

 

8/4/26

Thomas,

Typewriters are hard to get used to, especially when you’re only typing with one hand, so I commend your use of one. My sister always uses a typewriter when she writes to me. When she makes mistakes, she uses this special kind of white paint to cover them up, and then writes over the paint in pen when it dries. She’s resourceful like that.

The play was interesting. I’ve enclosed the program if you’d like to take a look. It’s about this company in the future that makes artificial people called “robots.” They’re artificial in the sense that they’re not born and are never children, but are put together as adults in a factory. Eventually the robots revolt against their masters and take over the world. While I thought the script wasn’t that great (a lot of the action happens off stage, so the characters have to explain to the audience what happened), I like the idea of robots. Not to say that I like the idea of slaves, of course. I like the idea of creating a new kind of person, who will experience life in a new kind of way.

OH! You’ll never believe who I ran into the other night. I managed to find a decently indecent jazz club (which is hard to do because you Brits always water the music down for some reason), and there he was, the fucking Duke of Crowborow (or however you spell it) moping at a table in the corner, all alone. He was still pretty bruised from your punch, so he tried covering it with some makeup, and it looked BAD. He was way too pale, like he dipped his face in a sack of flour, and it didn’t really do much to hide the bruising.

I was considering going over to him to let him know he’s gotta neutralize the purple with some yellow first before putting on the foundation (old theater trick), when HE recognized ME, and came up to me at the bar. So, I did something pretty mean:

I pretended I didn’t know him. Usually, when I do this, people assume they’ve mistaken me for someone else, and walk away. However, sometimes people get angry. The Duke got angry.

He said, “Mr. Sterling, I will NOT be insulted like this—”

“Buddy, my name isn’t Sterling.”

“Then what is your name?” he asked.

And I said, “Why, so you can keep bothering me?”

He walked away after that. I kinda wanted to say that I remembered the party, but not him specifically, because I spent most of my time there admiring the Crawley’s handsome new butler. However, I think if I had done that, the Duke would’ve at LEAST thrown his drink in my face, if not punch me outright.

If your hand isn’t well enough to write, and you don’t want to keep using the typewriter, perhaps we can arrange a phone call? I’ve had a few with Talbot already.

(star)

 

 

April 12th, 1926.

Dear Seth,

Dr. Clarkson has deemed my hand well enough to write, so long as I rest it afterwards, and stop immediately if I feel any pain. I’m impressed that your sister uses the typewriter so often. Is it required for her job as a librarian? There was a maid at Downton many years ago who wanted to learn how to type so she could become a secretary. The late Lady Sybil helped her get her first secretarial job. She succeeded in moving so far up in the world that she actually had luncheon with the Crawleys last year. I was… unpleasant to her because of this. It was a difficult time in my life.

Thank you for the program! Robots sound much like automatons, except they feel emotions and can make their own decisions. I confess that sometimes I feel like I’m an automaton. There are days where it seems I have no thoughts or feelings, just the ability to perform whatever action is required of me. Other times I think I have too many feelings all at once: too angry, too sad, too frustrated, too jealous, too afraid. On such days I usually lash out at people, usually the other servants. Say something cruel, or blame them for something that isn’t their fault. Yesterday was one of those days, but I managed to keep it together.

It was your ring, you see, or at least the words around it. It’s not too big for me, so I keep it on my right hand. When things became overwhelming today, I ran my fingers across the engraving, and repeated the words to myself until I calmed down.

If you’re wondering what overwhelmed me, Lady Mary had bit of a spell during a picnic with the children. After losing Lady Sybil to childbirth, we’ve all become extra sensitive to women in such delicate condition, even though we’ve seen multiple successful births in the years since. Dr. Clarkson, however, has confined Lady Mary indoors, and has even barred her from any estate managing duties.

As you might guess, she is terribly bored already. To appease her, Talbot bought her a set of beginner oil paints, along with some pre-stretched canvases. At the time of this writing, she has set a load of violets and primroses into a porcelain teapot, and is attempting to paint it.

It reminds me of our conversation about art vs. decoration. You said it depended on the intent of the artist, but what intent, exactly, makes something art? Intent beyond, of course, for the piece to be artistic.

I’m actually not surprised at all that you ran into the Duke of Crowborough while in London, as I believe he lives there with his wife, although I am surprised that he went out while his face is still bruised, especially when he couldn’t convincingly cover it up. I do wonder what he wanted to talk to you about, however. I must ask—just what sort of “decently indecent” club was this? Did this club attract a certain kind of patronage that would include men like ourselves?

And if so, did you go there for the music or the patronage? I suppose it’s uncouth for me to ask, but if I don’t, I’ll just mull over and jump to all sorts of conclusions.

Are you seeing anyone while you’re in London? Do you plan to?

I know it’s unfair of me to ask you not to while I haven’t officially given you an answer as to whether or not I’ll pursue a relationship with you, so I won’t. Just, please tell me if you do.

Actually, don’t tell me. It’s none of my business and I shouldn’t have asked.

Now I’m tempted to take some of Lady Mary’s white paint to cover up the last ten sentences or so, but I think it would just ruin the paper. I’ve written down my anxious, prying questions, and they can’t be changed. They’ll either scare you off or make you laugh, and I’ll just have to deal with the consequences.

I suppose I could just throw this letter out and write an entirely new one, but my hand is starting to cramp, and something about rewriting this feels cowardly.

I miss you. As much as I would like to hear your voice again, I don’t think a telephone call would be best, because I’d just want to spend hours and hours talking to you when there is work to be done. Do you have a set date on when you’re coming back? How are your negotiations with the other Talbot going? What does the BBC want with you?

Tell me everything. Or tell me nothing. I don’t care, I just want to hear from you.

Yours,

Thomas

 

 

14/4/26

Thomas,

First things first: I’m not seeing anyone else. I don’t want to see anyone else. I only want to see you. I think this is a conversation we should probably have in person when I get back. Unfortunately, I don’t have a set date as to when I can come home. I believe I have finished the job the Home Office asked me to do, but they want me to stick around and “keep an eye on things.”

I understand becoming overwhelmed by emotions. I’m glad the ring helped. My sister drinks this fancy herbal tea that she says, “promotes emotional stability,” so I’ve sent you some. I’m not trying to say that you’re emotionally unstable, or anything. I’m just saying that it could help.

As for Mary’s new hobby—I think the definition of art changes with each piece. Every drawing, painting, sculpture, song, must make its own argument as to why it’s art and not something else, like decoration. I knew a lot of artists in Berlin, and they would often talk about what makes something art. I think the consensus was that for a piece to be art, it must communicate something from the artist, to the viewer. A message, a theme, an idea, an argument. It doesn’t have to be complicated. It can just be “this is how I feel.”

Mary isn’t the most emotionally expressive person. I get the impression that she wasn’t allowed to be, that as the eldest daughter she was held to a higher standard than her sisters. She doesn’t seem to have any sense of self outside of Downton and her family. Who is she, without them? Maybe through painting, she can discover who that is.

Sil once told me that she didn’t figure out who she was as an individual until I left for Europe. Before that, she mostly thought of herself as Seth’s Sister, or Helena’s Daughter, or Harriet’s Mother, as if she only existed in relation to other people. I think Mary might have a similar problem.

I miss you, Thomas. I think about you all the fucking time. Everything reminds me of you. Clocks. Rain. Chocolate. Cars with spacious back seats. X-ray machines. Fish and chips. Every time I light a cigarette, I wonder what you’re doing, how you feel, if you’re thinking about me too.

And I only learned your first name two weeks ago! It’s completely nuts! Not your name, I mean. Your name is wonderful. It’s nuts that I’m so... enamored so fast. Enamored. That’s a pretty word. Does that make me pretty too? I don’t know what I’m on about here. I’m just rambling.

Don’t worry about scaring me off. I’m the scary one, ok? I’m fucking terrifying compared to you. I want to know everything about you. What’s your favorite color? When’s your birthday? What kinda books do you like to read, if any? Do you ever go back to Manchester? How does your hair always look so good? How does your EVERYTHING always look so good?

What do you want? For dinner? In life? In a lover?

What do you dream about?

Last night I dreamt that we were old men, that we moved to some seaside town even though I hate the ocean (it’s so big and deep and unknowable, plus I get seasick), but I didn’t hate it when I was with you. We had a dog. A borzoi. Are you familiar with them? I think technically, they’re hunting dogs, but I’ve never seen them used for that. They look kinda like big greyhounds draped in silk. They’re ugly in a pretty way, if that makes sense. Our dog was white. We called her Spectre.

I’m not sure how negotiations with the other Talbot are going. They’re playing some kind of long game, I think. They’re going to meet up with Branson and our Talbot at Pendine Sands on the 28th. Someone’s gonna try to break the land speed record, which is currently held by the Sunbeam 350HP, which was made by the same people who own the other Talbot. The challenger car is a Chitty 4, but they’re calling it “Babs” for some reason.  

I know you said you didn’t think a phone call would be a good idea, but I want you to be able to get ahold of me just in case, so I’m putting the info with this letter. Call me if you need me, anytime (but preferably after 10) for anything. Don’t hesitate.

(star)

 

 

 

Thomas hates that this, of all things, has gotten him to call. He’s still working on his response to Seth’s last letter. Tonight, just like every night, he sits at his desk and reads it to himself, relishing in the warmth that surrounds him with every word. He wants to write something that makes Seth feel just as warm and safe. But instead, he’s going to call, because John Bates is a bastard who can’t mind his own business.

 

This morning, Bates cornered him in the boot room after breakfast, his head hung low and his face twisted with guilt.

“What?” Thomas had asked, looking Bates up and down. “What’s the matter?”

Bates took a deep breath. “I don’t mean to, ah, infringe on your happiness, Mr. Barrow. Even Anna thinks I should lay off.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes. Bates rarely called him _mister_. “But?”

“But,” said Bates with a sigh, “I don’t think Mr. Starling is entirely who he says he is.”

Something between anger and nausea twisted in Thomas’s stomach, and his fingers went straight for the ring on his right hand. He rang his thumb across the engraving a few times before speaking.

“And why is that, Bates?” he asked.

Bates stood up straighter. “He says he is of German descent, yes? He even made us traditional German pastries from an old family recipe.”

Turning Starling’s ring around his finger, Thomas shrugged. “So? What’s the problem with that?”

“The problem is that _Starling_ is not a German name,” said Bates.

Thomas clicked his jaw. “Maybe it’s a Jewish name.”

“I don’t believe so,” said Bates. He swallows and taps his finger against the hook of his cane. “Which brings up another thing: he said his berliner recipe came from his _Oma Starling_. In my experience, German Jews do not call their grandmothers _Oma_ , they call them _Bubbe_.”

“ _Bubbe_?” Thomas gaped. “But that’s so-- Why in the world would they do _that_?”

“It’s Yiddish.” Bates said. “Different languages have different words for things. You were perfectly ready to accept that he called his grandmother _Oma_ , weren't you?”

Thomas blustered at this, taking his hands away from his ring so he could rub his fingers over his mouth. “So, what is all of this supposed to mean? Is he lying about being German, Jewish, or both? And why _would_ he?”

“I don’t know what it means,” said Bates, his shoulders sagging. “I just think there are parts of his story that don’t add up. I was going to say something when I gave you that shave, but Anna talked me out of it.”

“Then why tell me _now_?” Thomas hissed through his teeth.

Bates let out a sigh and held up his left hand. His golden wedding band glinted in the low light of the boot room. “Because he gave you a _ring_ , Thomas.”

“It--it’s not--” Thomas shook his head and tried to gather his thoughts. “It’s just for while he’s away. I gave him my lighter. We’ll trade them back when he returns.”

“Contrary to what you may believe,” said Bates as he took a step closer, “the people in this house _want_ you to be happy, _including_ me. So, if Mr. Starling turns out to be the wrong man, it would be better if you found out sooner rather than later.”

With that, Bates left to continue his duties as Lord Grantham’s valet. Thomas stood in the boot room for a few more moments, pondering just what to do with this information. Bates was right. The story didn’t add up. But he was sure that if he could just ask Seth the whole story, everything would be fine.

_You won’t like everything you hear._

_You won’t like everything you hear about me, either._

Running the memory of their last parting through his head, Thomas decided that he would do something he’d been putting off for ages: give Seth Starling a call in London.

 

Now, just past 10:30pm, Thomas sits at his desk, staring at the telephone in front of him. The rest of the servants have gone to bed, and there’s little chance that he will be interrupted, but worry still bubbles in the pit of his stomach. If he is caught, he can say he answered a wrong number.

Wait. Thomas scratches the back of his neck and frowns. Does the telephone bill say whether calls were incoming or outgoing? Did they say the time the calls took place? Mark Stiles rarely, if ever, used his telephone, so Thomas never got a look at the bill while he was butler there. Now that he thinks about it, he’s never seen Downton’s either. Perhaps it’s handled by the estate manager? Certainly, Lord Grantham wouldn’t handle such things _himself_.

Thomas relaxes a bit in his chair. Branson wouldn’t snitch. He didn’t snitch about Thomas and Seth snogging in the back of his car. Although, he might have told Talbot and Mary. Those three seem thick as thieves these days, which Thomas supposes it a good thing.

With a deep breath, Thomas pushes himself out of his chair and leaves the office to head for the kitchen. He’s only had one cup of the herbal tea Seth said promoted “emotional stability,” and didn’t care for the taste, but his nerves are on fire and his _this too shall pass_ mantra isn’t working. Calling Seth isn’t a wave of anxiety that he just needs to weather until it dissipates. It’s an action he must summon the bravery to do.

As he puts the kettle on the stove he tries to remind himself that it’ll be nice to hear Seth’s voice again, even with all the swearing and the American accent. Lady Grantham’s accent is fine, but Thomas finds most Americans to sound nasal and flat. However, Seth’s voice has an almost musical quality to it, especially when he says things like _I think we could make it work_ , and _I’ll take care of you_.

Christ, he misses him. The longing for him to return pierces just above his stomach and burrows under his heart like a creature preparing to hibernate. It’s not like missing Jimmy. Missing Jimmy was a full-body ache, dull and throbbing. Sometimes he wonders if it were really _Jimmy_ he missed, the golden boy in all his faults, or a Jimmy that Thomas created in his mind. The Maybe-Jimmy. The What-If-Jimmy.

_Some combination of both_ , Thomas thinks as he pours his tea. He sips, grimaces at the taste, then stirs in some milk and sugar. Much better.

As he makes his way back to the office, teacup in hand, he smiles to himself and imagines a silly scenario where his affections are auctioned off to the highest bidder.

_“I’ll polish all the silver!”_ says Jimmy in his head.

_“I’ll replace all your light bulbs!”_ counters Seth

_“I’ll play your favorite song!”_

_“I’ll suck your cock!”_

“Going once, going twice,” Thomas mutters aloud as he opens his office door, “and _sold_ to the cocksucker! Congratulations Mr. Starling!”

Chuckling, Thomas locks the door behind him, then sits down at the desk. He takes another sip of his tea before setting it aside and taking a good look at the telephone in front of him. It’s now or never. He picks up the receiver and dials.

After a brief exchange with an operator, Thomas hears him.

“Starling here,” he says, his voice grainy through the speaker.

“Seth!” says Thomas. A grin splits his face, and Thomas relaxes in his chair, his reason for calling momentarily forgotten.

“Oh, Thomas!” Seth replies. “I’ve been waiting for you to call! How are you? How’s your hand?”

“Dr. Clarkson declared my hand fully recovered just the other day, actually,” says Thomas. “How have you been?”

Seth lets out a long, guttural sigh. “Fucking terrible. This job is a nightmare, just paranoia and monotony.”

“I-- I’m sorry to hear that.” Thomas sits up and takes another sip of his tea. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Well, it’s much better now that you’ve called. I’ve been wanting you to for ages!”

Thomas sets down his tea cup and licks his lips, trying to think of how to begin. “Right, well, er, I actually had something I wanted to discuss.”

“Yeah? Hit me.”

Closing his eyes, Thomas takes a deep breath. “Is Starling your real name?”

There’s a pause. “Yes? Why wouldn’t it be?”

“It’s just, well--” Thomas rubs his eyes. “It’s not a German name, is it? And you’re of German descent. Oma Starling’s berliners and all that.”

“Oma Sta-- _oh_ , right.” Seth laughs. “Couple things. One? I’m pretty sure Mother anglicized _Starling_ from _Steinling._ Two? I got that recipe from a book.”

Thomas lets his mouth fall open as he tries to process this. “ _What_? You _lied_? But, but _why_?”

“In my experience, people are more inclined to like food they’ve never tried before if they believe it’s an old family recipe.” Seth says.

“But why _Oma_?” Thomas asks.

“I dunno, I was leaning into the German-ness of it, I guess.” Seth says. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Thomas thinks back on the jelly doughnuts that Seth had brought in, eagerly gobbled up by all the servants, including himself. “I suppose it did.”

“Is this _really_ why you called?” Seth asks. “To question my heritage?”

“No!” says Thomas, embarrassment sinking into him. “I mean, a bit, yes.”

“So, is this an issue with being German or with being Jewish?”

Thomas frowns. “Why would it be about that? I never said anything about you being Jewish.”

“Usually, people asking if I’m really German or not are actually asking about me being Jewish. People think you can’t be both. I didn’t think you were like that.”

The disappointment in Seth’s voice cuts Thomas deep. He crooks the handset in his neck so that he can twist the ring on his right hand and press his thumb across the Hebrew lettering.

“I’m _not_ like that, I promise.” Thomas says. “No one at Downton is. Lady Grantham’s maiden name is _Levinson_ , for goodness’ sake.”

“Levinson? Really?” Seth clicks his tongue at this. “Huh. Our families might have mutual friends.”

“Perhaps,” says Thomas. He’s about to suggest Lady Rose and Mr. Aldridge when Seth says:

“I still don’t understand what you’re calling about.”

Thomas sighs. “Someone suggested to me that you might not be entirely who you say you are.”

“Who?”

“Bates, who _really_ shouldn’t talk, now that I’m thinking about it.” Thomas says with a sneer.

Seth hums for a moment, as if he’s considering it. “Are any of us, though?”

“No,” says Thomas, leaning back in his chair again, “I suppose not.”

“Thomas,” says Seth, and his name sounds magical in his voice again, just like it did in the car, “I told you there were things about me you weren’t going to like.”

“And I told you there were things about me you wouldn’t like either,” Thomas says, “but I want you to know them. I want you to know everything. I want-- I want to _try_ , Seth. I want to _make it work_.”

“Wha—shit, really?” Seth says. “You mean it?”

Thomas laughs and nods, even though he knows Seth can’t see it. “Yes, I mean it. I want to be with you, but I don’t-- just don’t _lie_ to me, Seth, even about little things, like the berliners. All the things you say I won’t like, I can handle them, I swear, but” --his eyes start to sting-- “I can’t handle any lies. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Seth breathes. “I understand, I just… Thomas, I’m _worse_ than you.”

“What? How?” Thomas’s mouth goes dry as his heart begins to pound.

“Whatever it is you think I won’t like, Thomas, I’m worse,” says Seth. “Whatever you’ve done, I’ve done worse things.”

Thomas sips his tea to wet his tongue and calm his nerves. “Seth, you can’t know that.”

“Oh yeah?” Seth says. “What’s so bad about you?”

“I-- I tried to get Bates sacked, several times, over the years. I’d frame him for theft.” He holds his head in his hands, his stomach turning as the memories come rushing back to him. “Me and O’Brien-- the maid who used to work here-- we’d come up with all these schemes, all because I was after his job. I was just a footman back then, and all I could see was what I wanted. I didn’t care that I was trying to ruin a good man’s life.”

Seth listens to this, waiting a moment before responding. “What changed?”

“What?” Thomas asks, wiping his eyes.

“He still works there, so you must’ve stopped trying to get him fired. What changed?”

Thomas swallows. _Jimmy, Jimmy changed everything_ , he thinks, but he isn’t ready to tell that part of the story yet.

“O’Brien and I had a falling out, y’see.” Thomas says, instead. “I didn’t want to help her nephew, so she decided to get _me_ sacked, and very nearly succeeded, but Bates, er, intervened. To this day, I don’t know why, since I was so awful to him for so long, but he saved me from O’Brien’s wrath. We’ve had a sort of unspoken truce since then.”

“And now you’re the butler, so you have no reason to go after his job anyway,” says Seth, his smile clear in his voice.

Thomas chuckles. “Yes, that.”

“You’re not so bad,” says Seth. “It’s not like any of your schemes succeeded.”

“No,” says Thomas. “I suppose not. What about you?”

“Hm?”

“You asked what’s so bad about me, so, what’s so bad about you?”

“I’m--” There’s some shuffling, as if Seth has put his hand over the receiver. Muted voices exchange words, and Thomas, in a strange moment of panic, wonders who Seth is talking to, if this person has been there this whole time, listening to Seth’s side of the conversation. “Ok. This is a secure line. Thomas, you still there?”

“Yes,” he says. “Who was that? Who’s there with you?”

“Don’t worry, he’s gone.” Seth says.

“But who _was_ he?” Thomas asks, his heart thundering in his ears.

“Nobody, just someone I needed to ask about the phone.” Seth says. “You want to know what’s so bad about me, Thomas? Can you keep a secret?”

Thomas blinks. “Yes?”

“Seriously, Thomas, you can’t tell anyone about this. I’ll be in such shit if word gets out, but I want you to know because I don’t want to lie to you.”

“I understand.” Thomas says. He glances around the office, half-expecting to see someone hiding under a curtain or crouching behind a chair.

“I’m not in London to work for the BBC,” says Seth. “I mean, I am doing that, but it’s just for show. Are you familiar with the OMS?”

“The Organization for the Maintenance of Supplies?” Thomas asks. “They want to keep things going in case of a big strike.”

“That’s it.” Seth says. “The government thinks there will be a big strike soon, and they’ll need the OMS if that happens. However, they’re worried about fascist elements within the organization, so they’ve asked me to infiltrate and report back to them what I’ve found out.”

“What? Why would they ask _you_ to do this?”

“Because this is what I did for His Majesty’s Secret Service in Berlin, and Minsk, and plenty of other places where there was talk of communist uprisings. I wanted to retire, but they’re making me do this because none of their London agents know anything about fascism.”

“And you do?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“You’re a-- a _spy_?” Thomas says, cupping the receiver with both hands to keep his words safe from any nosy servants up for a late snack.

“Yes.” Seth says. “I go to meetings. I make friends. I tell lies to encourage people to talk. I listen. I report back to C.”

“What’s C?”

“C’s a who, not a what. He’s head of intelligence. It’s his code name. I cannot tell you anything else about him.”

“You’re not _having me on_ , are you?” Thomas asks. “Because if this is your idea of a joke, _Mr. Starling_ , I swear to God--”

“I am absolutely serious, Thomas. I lie to people every day. I don’t want you to be one of them, not when you asked me not to, not if we’re going to be together.”

“We’re going to be together.” Thomas hears the flatness in his own voice.

Seth clears his throat. “That is, if you still want to?”

Looking down at the ring on his finger, Thomas smiles. “Yes. Yes, I still want to. I want to so _desperately_. Seth, when do you come home?”

“Final negotiations with the miners begin May first. If they can come to an agreement, I’ll be home by the end of the week. If they don’t, if the Trades Union calls for a strike, well, it depends on how long the strike lasts, and how rough it gets.”

Thomas gulps. “Rough?”

“Some of the OMS guys are looking for a fight,” says Seth. “I try to tell them that a unionist ain’t a communist ain’t a Bolshevik, but they don’t give a shit. If this strike happens, and it probably will, things’ll get ugly. Maybe not in middle-of-nowhere Downton village, but in London, Manchester--”

“York,” says Thomas, thinking of the car shop, and Seth’s little flat above it.

“Exactly. So, stay safe, alright?”

Thomas smiles. “Will do. Will you keep writing? It’s getting late, and I don’t think I can do this regularly. Besides, I like getting letters.”

“Absolutely,” says Seth. “It _is_ getting late. Don’t you get up at seven?”

“Six, actually, sometimes 5:30 if I know it’s going to be a busy day.” Thomas says. “Goodnight, love, I’ll write to you tomorrow.”

Seth makes a sound, somewhere between laughter and a squeak.

“What was that?” Thomas asks.

“Oh, nothin’,” says Seth. “I just like when you call me that.”

“Do you like it,” asks Thomas with a grin, “or do you _love_ it?”

“Shut up and go to bed, ya big sap!” says Seth. “I haven’t come up with something to call you yet, but I will, and you’re gonna blush like a cherry, just you wait.”

“Goodnight, Seth,” says Thomas.

“Goodnight Thomas,” says Seth.

With a click, Seth is gone, and Thomas hangs up his own phone in return. He leans back in his chair and covers his eyes in the crook of his elbow. This is the single most ridiculous he has ever felt in his life. He, Thomas Barrow, Butler of Downton Abbey, is _romantically involved_ with an American who intermittently works as a _spy_ for the British Government. It’s not a prank, or a joke, it is his _reality_.

A lesser man might doubt that all of this is happening, but Thomas Barrow punched a Duke in public and got away with it. Who is he to second-guess the absurd path his life may take him?

It’s absurd and it’s wonderful and he is _so, so happy_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long, and that it's a bit shorter than the last one, but there are some BIG REVEALS to make up for it :D
> 
> Historical notes: The play Rossum's Universal Robots was the first use of the term "robot"!
> 
> The OMS totally DID have fascist elements in it, and the British government was not happy about it. When the government took it over with the onset of the strike, they made fascist members pinkie promise to not be fascists any more, but... many of them kept at it, starting/joining various fascist parties until such organizations were outlawed in 1940.


End file.
